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PUBLISHED BY 


STONE & KIMBALL 


^ PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE, l6mO., $1.25 

' »■ 

A lover’s diary, i6mo., $1.25 

WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC, l6mO., $ 1.50 
AN ADVENTURER OF THE NORTH, l6mo., $1.50 



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'Vi;: 

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An Adventurer of the 
North 

BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORIES OF 
“PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE,” AND THE 



LATEST EXISTING RECORDS OF 

PRETTY PIERRE 

GILBERT PARKER 




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COPYRIGHT, 189s, BY 
STONE AND KIMBALL 


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1 


TO SIR WILLIAM C. VAN HORNE. 

Dear Sir William: 

To the public it will seem fitting that these 
tales should be inscribed to one whose notable career 
is closely associated with the li*e and development 
of the Far North. 

But there are other and more personal reasons for 
this dedication; for some of the stories were begotten 
in midnight gossip by your fireside: furthermore, it 
my little book a sort of distinction to have on 
its fore-page the name of so well-known a connoisseur 
in art and lover of literature. 

Believe me, dear Sir William, 

Very sincerely yours, 

GILBERT PARKER. 

7 PARK PLACE, 

ST. JAMES’S S. W. 

THE AUTUMN, 1895. 



Contents 


PAGE 

ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS I 

A LOVELY BULLY 15 

THE FILIBUSTER 38 

THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING 6l 

MALACHI 87 

THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE 99 

THE RED PATROL 120 

THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN I35 

AT BAMBER’S boom 162 

THE BRIDGE HOUSE I74 

THE EPAULETTES I96 

THE FINDING OF FINGALL 207 

THREE COMMANDMENTS IN THE VULGAR TONGUE 2I9 
LITTLE BABICHE 249 

AT POINT o’ BUGLES 263 

THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA 278 

THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS 308 

THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR 320 

THE CRUISE OF THE “NINETY-NINE” 346 

A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 385 

410 


THE PLUNDERER 



All Adventurer of the North 


Across the Jumping Sandhills 

I 

Here now, Trader; aisy, aisy! Quicksands 
1 'vf seen along the sayshore, and up to me half- 
u i v i I ’ve been in wan, wid a double-an’ -twist 
in the rope to pull me out ; but a suckin’ sand 
in the open plain —aw. Trader, aw ! the like o’ 
that niver a bit saw I.” 

So said Macavoy the giant, when the thing 
was talked of in his presence. 

' Well, I tell you it ’s true, and they ’re not 
nrec miles from Fort O’Glory. The Com- 
.any’s* men do n’t talk about it — what ’s the 
use ? Travellers are few that way, and you can ’t 
get the Indians within miles of them. Pretty 
I'ierre knows all about them, better than anyone 
else almost. He’ll stand by me in it — eh, 
Pierre?” 

♦The Hudson’s Bay Company. 


1 


2 An Adventurer of the North 

Pierre, the half-breed gambler and adven- 
turer, took no notice, and was silent for a time, 
intent on his cigarette; and in the pause Mow- 
ley the trapper said: “Pierre’s gone back on 
you. Trader. P’r’aps ye have n’t paid him for 
the last lie. I go one better, you stand by me — 
my treat — that ’s the game ! ” 

“Aw, the like o’ that,” added Macavoy re- 
proachfully. “Aw, yer tongue to the roof o’ yer 
mouth, Mowley. Liars all men may be, but 
that’s wid wimmin or landlords. But, Pierre — 
aff another man’s bat like that — aw, Mowley, fill 
yer mouth wid the bowl o’ yer pipe !” 

Pierre now looked up at the three men, roll- 
ing another cigarette as he did so ; but he seemed 
to be thinking of a distant matter. Meeting the 
three pairs of eyes fixed on him, his own held 
them for a moment musingly; then he lit his 
cigarette, and, half-reclining on the bench where 
he sat, he began to speak, talking into the fire, 
as it were. 

“I was at Guidon Hill, at the Company’s 
post there. It was the fall of the year, when you 
feel that there is nothing so good as life, and the 
air drinks like wine. You think that sounds like 
a woman or a priest ? Mais, no. The seasons 
are strange. In the spring I am lazy and sad ; 
-n the fall I am gay, I am for the big things to 


Across the Jumping Sandhills 3 

do. This matter was in the fall. I felt that I 
must move. Yet, what to do ? There was the 
thing. Cards, of course. But that ’s only for 
times, not for all seasons. So I was like a wild 
dog on a chain. I had a good horse — Tophet, 
black as a coal, all raw bones and joint, and a 
reach like a moose. His legs worked like pis- 
ton-rods. But, as I said, I did not know where 
to go or what to do. So we used to sit at the 
Post loafing : in the daytime watching the empty 
plains all panting for travellers, like a young 
bride waiting her husband for the first time.” 

Macavoy regarded Pierre with delight. He 
had an unctuous spirit, and his heart was soft for 
women — so soft that he never had had one on his 
conscience, though he had brushed gay smiles 
off the lips of many. But that was an amiable 
weakness in a strong man. “Aw, Pierre,” he 
said coaxingly, “kape it down; aisy, aisy! me 
heart ’s goin’ like a trip-hammer at thought av 
it; aw yis, yis, Pierre!” 

“Well, it was like that to me — all sun and a 
sweet sting in the air. At night to sit and tell 
tales and such things ; and perhaps a little brown 
brandy, a look at the stars, a half-hour with the 
cattle — the same old game. Of course, there 
was the wife of Hilton the factor — fine, always 
fine to see, but deaf and dumb. We were good 


4 An Adventurer of the North 

friends, Ida and me. I had a hand in her wed- 
ding. Holy, I knew her when she was a little 
girl. We could talk together by signs. She was 
a good woman ; she had never guessed at evil. 
She was quick, too, like a flash, to read and 
understand without words. A face was a book 
to her. 

bien. One afternoon we were all stand- 
ing outside the Post, when we saw someone ride 
over the Long Divide. It was good for the eyes. 
I cannot tell quite how, but horse and rider were 
so sharp and clear-cut against the sky, that they 
looked very large and peculiar — there was some- 
thing in the air to magnify. They stopped for 
a minute on the top of the Divide, and it seemed 
like a messenger out of the strange country at 
the farthest north — the place of legends. But, 
of course, it was only a traveller like ourselves, 
for in a half-hour she was with us. 

“Yes, it was a ‘girl dressed as a man. She 
did not try to hide it ; she dressed so for ease. 
She would make a man’s heart leap in his mouth 
— if he was like Macavoy, or the pious Mowley 
there.” 

Pierre’s last three words had a touch of irony, 
for he knew that the Trapper had a precious 
tongue for Scripture when a missionary passed 
ihat way, and a bad name with women to give it 


Across the Jumping Sandhills 5 

point. Mowley smiled sourly; but Macavoy 
laughed outright, and smacked his lips on his 
pipe-stem luxuriously. 

“Aw now, Pierre — all me little failin’s — aw!” 
he protested. 

Pierre swung round on the bench, leaning 
upon the other elbow, and, cherishing his cigar- 
ette, presently continued : 

“ She had come far and was tired to death, 
so stiff that she could hardly get from the saddle; 
and the horse, too, was ready to drop. Hand- 
some enough she looked, for all that, in man’s 
clothes and a peaked cap, with a pistol in her 
belt. She was n’t big built — maisy a feathery 
kind of sapling — but she was set fair on her legs 
like a man, and a hand that was as good as I 
have seen, so strong, and like silk and iron with 
a horse. Well, what was the trouble? — fori saw 
there was trouble. Her eyes had a hunted look, 
and her nose breathed like a deer’s in the chase. 
All at once, when she saw Hilton’s wife, a cry 
come from her and she reached out her hands. 
What would women of that sort do? They were 
both of a kind. They got into each other’s 
arms. After that there was nothing for us men 
but to wait. All women are the same, and Hil- 
ton’s wife was like the rest. She must get the 
secret first; then the men should know. 


6 An Adventurer of the North 

“ We had to wait an hour. Then Hilton's 
wife beckoned to us. We went’ inside. The 
girl was asleep. There was something in the 
touch of Hilton’s wife like sleep itself — like 
music. It was her voice — that touch. She could 
not speak with her tongue, but her hands and 
face were words and music. Bien^ there was the 
girl asleep, all clear of dust and stain: and that 
fine hand it lay loose on her breast, so quiet, so 
quiet. Enfin, the real story — for how she slept 
there does not matter — but it was good to see 
when we knew the story.” 

The Trapper was laughing to himself to 
hear Pierre in this romantic mood. A woman’s 
hand — it was the game for a boy, not an adven- 
turer ; for the Trapper’s only creed was, that 
women, like deer, were spoils for the hunter. 
Pierre’s keen eye noted this, but he was above 
petty anger. He merely said: 

“ If a man have an eye to see behind the 
face, he understands the laugh of a fool, or 
the hand of a good woman, and that is much. 
Hilton’s wife told us all. She had rode two 
hundred miles from the south-west, and was 
making for Fort Micah, sixty miles farther north. 
For what? She had loved a man against the 
will of her people. There had been a feud, and 
Garrison — that was the lover’s name — was the 


Across the Jumping Sandhills 7 

last on his own side. There was trouble at a 
Company’s post, and Garrison shot a half-breed. 
Men say he was right to shoot him, for a wo- 
man’s name must be safe up here. Besides, the 
half-breed drew first! Well, Garrison was tried, 
and must go to jail for a year. At the end of 
that time he would be free. The girl Janie 
knew the day. Word had come to her. She 
made everything ready. She knew her brothers 
were watching — her three brothers and two other 
men who had tried to get her love. She knew 
also that they five would carry on the feud 
against the one man. So one night she took 
the best horse on the ranch and started away 
toward Fort Micah. Alors, you know how she 
got to Guidon Hill after two days’ hard riding 
— enough to kill a man, and over fifty yet to do. 
She was sure her brothers were on her track. 
But if she could get to Fort Micah, and be mar- 
ried to Garrison before they came, she wanted 
no more. 

“ There were only two horses of use at Hil- 
ton’s post then; all the rest were away, or not fit 
for hard travel. There was my Tophet, and a 
lean chestnut, with a long propelling gait, and 
not an ounce of loose skin on him. There was 
but one way: the girl must get there. Allans , 
what is the good! What is life without these 


8 An Adventurer of the North 

things! The girl loves the man : she must have 
him in spite of all. There was only Hilton and 
his wife and me at the Post, and Hilton was lame 
from a fall and one arm in a sling. If the 
brothers followed, well, Hilton could not inter- 
fere — he was a Company’s man ; but for myself, 
as I said, I was hungry for adventure, I had an 
ache in my blood for something. I was tingling 
to the toes, my heart was thumping in my throat. 
All the cords of my legs were straightening like 
I was in the saddle. 

“ She slept for three hours. I got the two 
horses saddled. Who could tell but she might 
need help? I had nothing to do ; I knew the 
shortest way to Fort Micah every foot — and 
then it is good to be ready for all things. I told 
Hilton’s wife what I had done. She was glad. 
She made a sign at me as to a brother; and then 
began to put things in a bag for us to carry. 
She had settled all how it was to be. She had 
told the girl. You see, a man may be — what is 
it they call me? — a plunderer, and yet a woman 
will trust him, comma (a! ” 

“ Aw yis, aw yis, Pierre ; but she knew yer 
hand and yer tongue niver wint agin a woman, 
Pierre. Naw, niver a wan. Aw, swate, swate, 
she was, wid a heart — a heart, Hilton’s wife, aw 
yis!” 


Across the Jumping Sandhills g 

Pierre waved Macavoy into silence. “ The 
girl waked after three hours with a start. Her 
hand caught at her heart. ‘ Oh,’ she said, still 
staring at us. ‘ I thought that they had come!’ 
A little after she and Hilton’s wife went to 
another room. All at once there was a sound of 
horses outside, and then a knock at the door, 
and four men come in. They were the girl’s 
hunters. 

“ It was hard to tell what to do all in a min- 
ute; but I saw at once the best thing was to act 
for all, and to get the men inside the house. So 
I whispered to Hilton, and then pretended that 
I was a great man in the Company. I ordered 
Hilton to have the horses cared for, and, not 
giving the men time to speak, I fetched out the 
old brown brandy, wondering all the time what 
could be done. There was no sound from the 
other room, though I thought I heard a door 
open once. Hilton played the game well, and 
showed nothing when I ordered him about, and 
agreed word for word with me when I said no 
girl had come, laughing when they told why 
they were after her. More than one of them did 
not believe at first; but, pshaw, what have I been 
doing all my life to let such fellows doubt me ! 
So the end of it was that I got them all inside 
the house. There was one bad thing — their 


10 An Adventurer af the North 

horses were all fresh, as Hilton whispered to me. 
They had only rode them a few miles — they had 
stole or bought them at the first ranch to the 
west of the Post. I could not make up my 
mind what to do. But it was clear I must keep 
them quiet till something shaped. 

“ They were all drinking brandy when Hil- 
ton’s wife come into the room. Her face, mon 
Dieu! it was so innocent, so childlike. She stared 
at the men ; and then I told them she was deaf 
and dumb, and I told her why they had come. 
Voila, it was beautiful — like nothing you ever 
saw. She shook her head so simple, and then 
told them like a child that they were wicked to 
chase 'a girl. I could have kissed her feet. 
Thunder, how she fooled them ! She said, 
would they not search the house ? She said all 
through me, on her fingers and by signs. And 
I told them at once. But she told me some- 
thing else — that the girl had slipped out as the 
last man came in, had mounted the chestnut, 
and would wait for me by the iron spring, a quar- 
ter of a mile away. There was the danger that 
some one of the men knew the finger talk, so she 
told me this in signs mixed up with other sen- 
tences. 

“ Good! There was now but one thing — for 
me to get away. So I said, laughing, to one of 


Across the Jumping Sandhills ii 

the men, ‘ Come, and we will look after the 
horses, and the others can search the place with 
Hilton.’ So we went out to where the horses 
were tied to the railing, and led them away to 
the corral. 

“ Of course you will understand how I did it. 
I clapped a hand on his mouth, put a pistol at 
his head, and gagged and tied him. Then I got 
my Tophet, and away I went to the spring. The 
girl was waiting. There were few words. I 
gripped her hand, gave her another pistol, and 
then we got away on a fine moonlit trail. We 
had not gone a mile when I heard a faint yell 
far behind. My game had been found out. 
There was nothing to do but to ride foi it now, 
and maybe to fight. But fighting was not good ; 
for I might be killed, and then the girl would be 
caught just the same. We rode on — such a ride, 
the horses neck and neck, their hoofs pounding 
the prairie like drills, rawbone to rawbone, a 
hell-to-split gait. I knew they were after us, 
though I saw them but once on the crest of a 
Divide about three miles behind. Hour after 
hour like that, with ten minutes’ rest now and 
then at a spring or to stretch our legs. We 
hardly spoke to each other ; but, God of love ! 
my heart was warm to this girl who had rode a 
hundred and fifty miles in twenty-four hours. 


12 An Adventurer of the North 

Just before dawn, when I was beginning to think 
that we would easy win the race if the girl could 
but hold out, if it did not kill her, the chestnut 
struck a leg into the crack of the prairie, and 
horse and girl spilt on the ground together. She 
could hardly move, she was so weak, and her 
face was like death. I put a pistol to the chest- 
nut’s head, and ended it. The girl stooped and 
kissed the poor beast’s neck, but spoke nothing. 
As I helped her on my Tophet I put my lips to 
the sleeve of her dress. Mother of Heaven ! 
what could a man do ? she was so dam’ brave ! 

‘‘Dawn was just breaking oozy and grey at 
the swell of the prairie over the Jumping Sand- 
hills. They lay quiet and shining in the green- 
brown plain; but I knew that there was a churn 
beneath which could set those swells of sand in 
motion, and make Glory-to-God of an army. 
Who can tell what it is ? A flood under the 
surface, a tidal river — what? No man knows. 
But they are sea monsters on the land. Every 
morning at sunrise they begin to eddy and roll 
— and who ever saw a stranger sight ? Bieti, I 
looked back. There were those four pirates 
coming on, about three miles away. What was 
there to do? The girl and myself on my blown 
horse were too much. Then a great idea come 
to me. I must reach and cross the Jumping 


Across the Jumping Sandhills 13 

Sandhills before sunrise. It was one deadly 
chance. 

“ When we got to the edge of the sand they 
were almost a mile behind. I was all sick to my 
teeth as my poor Tophet stepped into the silt. 
God! how I watched the dawn! Slow, slow, we 
dragged over that velvet powder. As we reached 
the farther side I could feel it was beginning to 
move. The sun was showing like the lid of an 
eye along the plain. I looked back. All four 
horsemen were in the sand, plunging on towards 
us. By the time we touched the brown-green 
prairie on the farther side the sand was rolling 
behind us. The girl had not looked back. She 
was too dazed. I jumped from the horse, and 
told her that she must push on alone to the 
Fort, that Tophet could not carry both, that I 
should be in no danger. She looked at me so 
deep — ah, I cannot tell how! then stooped and 
kissed me between the eyes — I have never for- 
got. I struck Tophet, and she was gone to her 
happiness; for before ‘lights out!’ she reached 
the Fort and her lover’s arms. 

“But I stood looking back on the Jumping 
Sandhills. So, was there ever a sight like that 
— those hills gone like a smelting-floor, the sun- 
rise spotting it with rose and yellow, and three 
horses and their riders fighting what cannot be 


14 


An Adventurer of the North 


fought? — What could I do? They would have 
got the girl and spoiled her life, if I had not led 
them across, and they would have killed me if 
they could. Only one cried out, and then but 
once, in a long shriek. But after, all three were 
quiet as they fought, until they were gone where 
no man could see, where none cries out so we 
can hear. The last thing I saw was a hand 
stretching up out of the sand.” 

There was a long pause, painful to bear. The 
Trader sat with eyes fixed humbly as a dog’s on 
Pierre. At last Macavoy said: 

“She kissed ye, Pierre, aw yis; she did that! 
Jist betune the eyes. Do yees iver see her now, 
Pierre ? ” 

But Pierre, looking at him, made no answer. 


A Lovely Bully 

He was seven feet and fat. He came to Fort 
O’Angel at Hudson’s Bay, an immense slip of a 
lad, very much in the way, fond of horses, a won- 
derful hand at wrestling, pretending a horrible 
temper, threatening tragedies for all who differed 
from him, making the Fort quake with his rich 
roar, and playing the game of bully with a fine 
simplicity. In winter he fattened, in summer he 
sweated, at all times he ate eloquently. 

It was a picture to see him with the undercut 
of a haunch of deer or buffalo, or with a whole 
prairie-fowl on his plate, his eyes measuring it 
shrewdly, his coat and waistcoat open, and a 
clear space about him — for he needed room to 
stretch his mighty limbs, and his necessity was 
recognized by all. 

Occasionally he pretended to great ferocity, 
but scowl he ever so much, a laugh kept idling 
in his irregular bushy beard, which lifted about 
his face in the wind like a mane, or made a kind 
of underbrush through which his blunt fingers 
ran at hide-and-seek. 


15 


1 6 An Adventurer of the North 

He was Irish, and his name was Macavoy. 
In later days, when Fort O’ Angel was invaded 
by settlers, he had his time of greatest impor- 
tance. 

He had been useful to the Chief Trader at 
the Fort in the early days, and having the run 
of the Fort and the reach of his knife at table, 
was little likely to discontinue his adherence. 
But he ate and drank with all the dwellers at 
the Post, and abused all impartially. 

“Malcolm,” said he to the Trader, “Malcolm, 
me glutton o’ the H.B.C., that wants the Far 
North for your footstool — Malcolm, you villain, 
it ’s me grief that I know you, and me thumb to 
me nose in token ! ” 

Wiley and Hatchett, the principal settlers, he 
abused right and left, and said, “Wasn’t there 
land in the East and West, that ye steal the 
country God made for honest men ? — ye rob- 
bers of the wide world ! Me tooth on the Book, 
and I tell you what, it ’s only me charity that 
kapes me from spoilin’ ye. For a wink of me 
eye, an’ away you ’d go, leaving your tails behind 
you — and pass that shoulder of bear, ye pirates, 
till I come to it side-ways, like a hog to war!” 

He was even less sympathetic with Bareback, 
the chief, and his braves. “ Sons o’ Anak y’ are ; 
here to-day and away to-morrow, like the clods 


A Lovely Bully 1 7 

of the valley — and that ’s yer portion, Bareback. 
It ’s the word o’ the Pentytook — in pieces you 
go, like a potter’s vessel. Do n’t shrug your 
shoulders at me, Bareback, you pig, or you ’ll 
think that Ballzeboob ’s loose on the mat ! But 
take a sup o’ this whisky, while you shwear wid 
your hand on your chist, ‘Amin’ to the words o’ 
Tim Macavoy!” 

Beside Macavoy, Pierre the notorious, was a 
child in height. Up to the time of the half- 
breed’s coming the Irishman had been the most 
outstanding man at Fort O’Angel, and was sure 
of a good-natured homage, acknowledged by 
him with a jovial tyranny. 

Pierre put a flea in his ear. He was pen- 
sively indifferent to him even in his most royal 
moments. He guessed the way to bring down 
the gusto and pride of this Goliath, but, for a 
purpose, he took his own time, nodding indo- 
lently to Macavoy when he met him, but avoid- 
ing talk with him. 

Among the Indian maidens Macavoy was like 
a king or khan ; for they count much on bulk 
and beauty, and he answered to their standards 
— especially to Wonta’s. It was a sight to see 
him of a summer day, sitting in the shade of a 
pine, his shirt open, showing his firm brawny 
chest, his arms bare, his face shining with per- 


1 8 An Adventurer of the North 

spiration, his big voice gurgling in his beard, his 
eyes rolling amiably upon the maidens as they 
passed or gathered near demurely, while he de- 
claimed of mighty deeds in patois or Chinook to 
the braves. 

Pierre’s humour was of the quietest, most 
subterranean kind. He knew that Macavoy had 
not an evil hair in his head; that vanity was his 
greatest weakness, and that through him there 
never would have been more half-breed popula- 
tion. There was a tradition that he had a wife 
somewhere — based upon wild words he had once 
said when under the influence of bad liquor; 
but he had roared his accuser the lie when the 
thing was imputed to him. 

At Fort Ste. Anne, Pierre had known an old 
woman, by name of Kitty Whelan, whose char- 
acter was all tatters. She had told him that 
many years agone she had had a broth of a lad 
for a husband; but because of a sharp word or 
two across the fire, and the toss of a handful of 
furniture, he had left her, and she had seen no 
more of him. “ Tall like a chimney he was,” 
said she, “ and a chest like a wall, so broad, and 
a voice like a huntsman’s horn, though only a 
b’y, an’ no hair an his face; an’ she did n’t know 
whether he was dead or alive; but dead belike, 
for he ’s sure to come rap agin’ somethin’ that ’d 


19 


A Lovely Bully 

kill him; for he, the darlin’, was that aisy and 
gentle, he would n’t pull his fightin’ iron till he 
had death in his ribs.” 

Pierre had drawn from her that the name of 
this man whom she had cajoled into a marriage 
(being herself twenty years older), and driven to 
deserting her afterward, was Tim Macavoy. 
She had married Mr. Whelan on the assumption 
that Macavoy was dead. But Mr. Whelan had 
not the nerve to desert her, and so he departed 
this life, very loudly lamented by Mrs. Whelan, 
who had changed her name with no right to do 
so. With his going her mind dwelt greatly upon 
the virtues of her mighty vanished Tim : and ill 
would it be for Tim if she found him. 

Pierre had journeyed to Fort O’ Angel almost 
wholly because he had Tim Macavoy in his 
mind; in it Mrs. Whelan had only an incidental 
part: his plans journeyed beyond her and her 
lost consort. He was determined on an expedi- 
tion to capture Fort Comfort, which had been 
abandoned by the great Company, and was now 
held by a great band of the Shunup Indians. 

Pierre had a taste for conquest for its own 
sake; though he had no personal ambition. 
The love of adventure was deep in him, he 
adored sport for its own sake, he had had a 
long range of experiences — some discreditable, 


20 . An Adventurer of the North 

and now he had determined on a field for his 
talent. 

He would establish a kingdom, and resign it. 
In that case he must have a man to take his 
place. He chose Macavoy. 

First he must humble the giant to the earth, 
then make him into a great man again, with a 
new kind of courage. The undoing of Macavoy 
seemed a civic virtue. He had a long talk with 
Wonta, the Indian maiden most admired by 
Macavoy. Many a time the Irishman had cast 
an ogling, rolling eye on her, and had talked 
his loudest within her ear-shot, telling of splen- 
did things he had done : making himself like 
another Samson as to the destruction of men, 
and a Hercules as to the slaying of cattle. 

Wonta had a sense of humour also, and when 
Pierre told her what was required of her, she 
laughed with a quick little gurgle, and showed 
as handsome a set of teeth as the half-breed’s; 
which said much for her. She promised to do 
as he wished. So it chanced when Macavoy was 
at his favorite seat beneath the pine, talking to a 
gaping audience, Wonta and a number of Indian 
girls passed by. Pierre was leaning against a 
door smoking, not far away. Macavoy ’s voice 
became louder. 

‘ Stand them up wan by wan,’^ says I, ‘ and 


A Lovely Bully 21 

give me a leg loose and a fist free ; and at 
that—’ ” 

“ At that there was thunder and fire in the 
sky, and because the great Macavoy blew his 
breath over them they withered like the leaves,” 
cried Wonta laughing; but her laugh had an 
edge. 

Macavoy stopped short, open - mouthed, 
breathing hard in his great beard. He was as- 
tonished at Wonta’s raillery: the more so when 
she presently snapped her fingers, and the other 
maidens, laughing, did the same. Some of the 
half-breeds snapped their fingers also in sym- 
pathy, and shrugged their shoulders. Wonta 
came up to him softly, patted him on the head, 
and said: “ Like Macavoy there is nobody. He 
is a great brave. He is not afraid of a coyote, 
he has killed prairie-hens in numbers as pebbles 
by the lakes. He has a breast like a fat ox,” — 
here she touched the skin of his broad chest, — 
“ and he will die if you do not fight him.” 

Then she drew back, as though in humble 
dread, and glided away with the other maidens, 
Macavoy staring after her with a blustering kind 
of shame in his face. The half-breeds laughed, 
and, one by one, they got up and walked away 
also. Macavoy looked round: there was no one 
near save Pierre, whose eye rested on him lazily. 


22 An Adventurer of the North 

Macavoy got to his feet muttering. This was 
the first time in his experience at Fort O’ Angel 
that he had been bluffed — and by a girl ; one 
for whom he had a very soft place in his big 
heart. Pierre came slowly over to him. 

“ I ’d have it out with her,” said he. “ She 
called you a bully and a brag.” 

“ Out with her! ” cried Macavoy. “ How can 
ye have it out wid a woman? ” 

“ Fight her,” said Pierre pensively. 

“ Fight her ! fight her ! Holy smoke ! How 
can ye fight a woman? ” 

“ Why, what — do you — fight ? ” asked Pierre 
innocently. 

Macavoy grinned in a wild kind of fashion. 
“ Faith, then, y’ are a fool. Bring on the divil 
an’ all his angels, say I, and I ’ll fight thim where 
I shtand.” 

Pierre ran his fingers down Macavoy’s arm, 
and said, “ There ’s time enough for that. 1 ’d 
begin with the five.” 

“What five, then ? ” 

“ Her half-breed' lovers : Big Eye, One Toe, 
Jo-John, Saucy Boy, and Limber Legs.” 

“Her lovers! Her lovers, is it? Is there truth 
on y’r tongue ? ” 

“ Go to her father’s tent at sunset, and you ’ll 
find one or all of them there.” 


23 


A Lovely Bully 

Oh, is that it ? ” said the Irishman, opening 
and shutting his fists. “ Then I ’ll carve their 
hearts out, an’ ate thim wan by wan this night.” 

“ Come down to Wiley’s,” said Pierre, “there ’s 
better company there than here.” 

Pierre had arranged many things, and had 
secured partners in his little scheme for humbling 
the braggart. He so worked on the other’s good 
nature that by the time they reached the 
settler’s place, Macavoy was stretching himself 
with a big pride. Seated at Wiley’s table, with 
Hatchett and others near, and drink going 
about, someone drew the giant on to talk, and 
so deftly and with such apparent innocence did 
Pierre, by a word here and a nod there, encour- 
age him, that presently he roared at Wiley and 
Hatchett — ^ 

“Ye shameless buccaneers that push yer 
way into the tracks of honest men, where the 
Company’s been three hundred years by the 
will o’ God — if it was n’t for me, ye Jack Shep- 
pards — ” 

Wiley and Hatchett both got to their feet 
with pretended rage, saying he ’d insulted them 
both, that he was all froth and brawn, and giv- 
ing him the lie. 

Utterly taken aback, Macavoy could only 
stare, puffing in his beard, and drawing in his 


24 An Adventurer of the North 

legs, which had been spread out at angles. He 
looked from Wiley to the impassive Pierre. 

‘‘ Buccaneers, you call us,” Wiley went on ; 
“ we ’ll have no more of that, or there ’ll be 
trouble at Fort O’ Angel.” 

‘‘Ah, sure y ’are only jokin’,” said Macavoy, 
“ for I love ye, ye scoundrels. It ’s only me 
fun.” 

“For fun like that you ’ll pay, ruffian!” said 
Hatchett, bringing down his fist on the table 
with a bang. 

Macavoy stood up. He looked confounded, 
but there was nothing of the coward in his face. 
“Oh, well,” said he, “I’ll be goin’, for ye’ve 
got y’r teeth all raspin’.” 

As he went the two men laughed after him 
mockingly. “ Wind like a bag,” said Hatchett. 
“Bone like a marrowfat pea,” added Wiley. 

Macavoy was at the door, but at that he 
turned. “ If ye care to sail agin that wind, an’ 
gnaw on that bone, I ’d not be sayin’ you no.” 

“Will tonight do — at sunset?” said Wiley. 

“ Bedad, then, me b’ys, sunset ’ll do — an’ not 
more than two at a toime,” he added softly, all 
the roar gone from his throat. Then he went 
out, followed by Pierre. 

Hatchett and Wiley looked at each other and 
laughed a little confusedly. “ What ’s that he 


A Lovely Bully 25 

said?” muttered Wiley. ‘‘Not more than two 
at a time, was it ?” 

“ That was it. I do n’t know that it ’s what 
we bargained for, after all.” He looked round 
on the other settlers present, who had been awed 
by the childlike, earnest note in Macavoy’s last 
words. They shook their heads now a little 
sagely ; they were n’t so sure that Pierre’s little 
game was so jovial as it had promised. 

Even Pierre had hardly looked for so much 
from his giant as yet. In a little while he had 
got Macavoy back to his old humour. 

“What was I made for but war!” said the 
Irishman, “an’ by war to kape thim at peace, 
wherever I am.” 

Soon he was sufficiently restored in spirits to 
go with Pierre to Bareback’s lodge, where, sit- 
ting at the tent door, with idlers about, he 
smoked with the chief and his braves. Again 
Pierre worked upon him adroitly, and again he 
became loud in speech and grandly patronizing. 

“ I ’ve stood by ye like a father, ye loafers,” 
he said, “ an’ I give you my word, ye howlin’ 
rogues — ” 

Here Bareback and a half-dozen braves came 
up suddenly from the ground, and the chief said 
fiercely: “ You speak crooked things. We are 
no rogues. We will fight.” 


26 An Adventurer of the North 

Macavoy’s face ran red to his hair. He 
scratched his head a little foolishly, and gath- 
ered himself up. “ Sure, ’t was only me tasin’, 
darlin’s,” he said, “but I ’ll be cornin’ again, 
when y’ are not so narvis.” He turned to go 
away. 

Pierre made a sign to Bareback, and the 
Indian touched the giant on the arm. “ Will 
you fight ?” said he. 

“ Not all o’ ye at once,” said Macavoy slowly, 
running his eye carefully along the half-dozen ; 
“not more than three at a toime,” he added 
with a simple sincerity, his voice again gone like 
the dove’s. “ At what time will it be convayn- 
yint for ye ? ” he asked. 

“At sunset,” said the chief, “before the 
Fort.” 

Macavoy nodded and walked away with 
Pierre, whose glance of approval at the Indians 
did not make them thoroughly happy. 

To rouse the giant was not now so easy. He 
had already three engagements of violence for 
sunset. Pierre directed their steps by a round- 
about to the Company’s stores, and again there 
was a distinct improvement in the giant’s spirits. 
Here at least he could be himself, he thought, 
here no one should say him nay. As if nerved 
by the idea, he plunged at once into boisterous 


A Lovely Bully 27 

raillery of the Chief Trader. “ Oh, ho,” he 
began, “ me freebooter, me captain av the loot- 
ers av the North!” 

The Trader snarled at him. “What d’ye 
mean, by such talk to me, sir ? I ’ve had 
enough — we ’ve all had enough — of your brag 
and bounce ; for you ’re all sweat and swill-pipe, 
and I give you this for your chewing, that though 
by the Company’s rules I can ’t go out and fight 
you, you may have your pick of my men for it. 
I’ll take my pay for your insults in pounded 
flesh — Irish pemmican 1 ” 

Macavoy’s face became mottled with sudden 
rage. He roared, as, perhaps, he had never 
roared before — 

“Are ye all gone mad — mad — mad? I was 
jokin’ wid ye, whin I called ye this or that. But 
by the swill o’ me pipe, and the sweat o’ me 
skin, I ’ll drink the blood o’ yees. Trader, me 
darlin’. An’ all I ’ll ask is, that ye mate me to- 
night whin the rest o’ the pack is in front o’ the 
Fort — but not more than four o’ yees at a time 
— for little scrawney rats as y’ are, too many o’ 
yees wad be in me way.” He wheeled and 
strode fiercely out. Pierre smiled gently. 

“He’s a great bully that, isn’t he. Trader? 
There’ll be fun in front of the Fort to-night. 
For he ’s only bragging, of course — eh ? ” 


28 An Adventurer of the North 

The Trader nodded with no great assurance, 
and then Pierre said as a parting word : ‘‘You ’ll 
-be there, of course — only ‘four av ye!’” and 
hurried out after Macavoy, humming to him- 
self— 

“ For the King said this, and the Queen said that, 
But he walked away with their army, O ! ” 

So far Pierre’s plan had worked even better 
than he expected, though Macavoy’s moods had 
not been altogether after his imaginings. He 
drew alongside the giant, who had suddenly 
grown quiet again. Macavoy turned and looked 
down at Pierre with the candour of a schoolboy, 
and his voice was very low — 

“It’s a long time ago, I’m thinkin’,” he 
said, “since I lost me frinds — ages an’ ages ago. 
For me frinds are me inimies now, an’ that makes 
a man old. But I ’ll not say that it cripples his 
arm or humbles his back.” He drew his arm up 
once or twice and shot it out straight into the 
air like a catapult. “It ’s all right,” he added, 
very softly, “an’. Half-breed, me b’y, if me frinds 
have turned inimies, why, I ’m thinkin’ me inimy 
has turned frind, for that I ’m sure you were, an’ 
this I ’m certain y’ are. So here ’s the grip av 
me fist, an’ y’ 11 have it.” 

Pierre remembered that disconcerting, iron 
grip of friendship for many a day. He laughed 


A Lovely Bully 29 

to himself to think how he was turning the brag- 
gart into a warrior. 

“Well,” said Pierre, “what about those five 
at Wonta’s tent ?” 

“I’ll be there whin the sun dips below the 
Little Red Hill,” he said, as though his thoughts 
were far away, and he turned his face towards 
Wonta’s tent. Presently he laughed out loud. 
“It ’s many a long day,” he said, “since — ” 

Then he changed his thoughts. “They’ve 
spoke sharp words in me teeth,” he continued, 
“and they ’ll pay for it. Bounce ! sweat ! brag ! 
wind ! is it ? There ’s dancin’ beyant this night, 
me darlins ! ” 

“Are you sure you ’ll not run away when they 
come on?” said Pierre, a little ironically. 

“Is that the word av a frind ?” replied Maca- 
voy, a hand fumbling in his hair. 

“Did you never run away when faced?” 
Pierre asked pitilessly. 

“I never turned tail from a man, though, to 
be sure, it ’s been more talk than fight up here : 
Fort Ste. Anne ’s been but a graveyard for fun 
these years.” 

“Eh, well,” persisted Pierre, “but did you 
never turn tail from a slip of a woman ?” 

The thing was said idly. Macavoy gathered 
his beard in his mouth, chewing it confusedly. 


30 


An Adventurer of the North 


‘‘You ’ve a keen tongue for a question,” was his 
reply. “What for should any man run from a 
woman ?” 

“When the furniture flies, and the woman 
knows more of the world in a day than the man 
does in a year ; and the man ’s a hulking bit of 
an Irishman — bien^ then things are so and so!” 

Macavoy drew back dazed, his big legs trem- 
bling. “Come into the shade of these maples,” 
said Pierre, “for the sun has set you quaking a 
little,” and he put out his hand to take Maca- 
voy’s arm. 

The giant drew away from the hand, but 
walked on to the trees. His face seemed to 
have grown older by years on the moment. 
“What’s this y’ are sayin’ to me?” he said 
hoarsely. “What do you know av — av that 
woman ? ” 

“Malahide is a long way off,” said Pierre, 
“but when one travels why should n’t the 
other?” 

Macavoy made a helpless motion with his 
lumbering hand. “Mother o’ saints,” he said, 
“has it come to that, after all these years? Is 
she — tell me where she is, me frind, and you ’ll 
niver want an arm to fight for ye, an’ the half av 
a blanket, while I have wan ! ” 

“But you ’ll run as you did before, if I tell 


A Lovely Bully 3 1 

you, an’ there ’ll be no fighting to-night, accord- 
in’ to the word you ’ve given.” 

“No fightin’, did ye say ? an’ run away, is it ? 
Then this in your eye, that if ye ’ll bring an 
army, I ’ll fight till the skin is in rags on me 
bones, whin it ’s only men that ’s before me ; but 
women, and that wan ! Faith, I ’d run, I ’m 
thinkin’, as I did, you know when — Do n’t tell 
me that she ’s here, man ; arrah, do n’t say that ! ” 

There was something pitiful and childlike in 
the big man’s voice, so much so that Pierre, cal- 
culating gamester as he was, and working upon 
him as he had been for many weeks, felt a sud- 
den pity, and dropping his fingers on the other’s 
arm, said: “ No, Macavoy, my friend, she is 
not here; but she is at Fort Ste. Anne — or was 
when I left there.” 

Macavoy groaned. “ Does she know that I ’m 
here? ” he asked. 

“ I think not. Fort Ste. Anne is far away, 
and she may not hear.” 

“What — what is she doing? ” 

“ Keeping your memory and Mr. Whelan’s 
green.” Then Pierre told him somewhat bluntly 
what he knew of Mrs. Macavoy. 

“ I ’d rather face Ballzeboob himself than 
her,” said Macavoy. “ An’ she ’s sure to find 


32 An Adventurer of the North 

Not if you do as I say.” 

“ An’ what is it ye say, little man? ” 

“ Come away with me where she ’ll not find 
you.” 

‘‘ An’ where is that, Pierre darlin’? ” 

“ I ’ll tell you that when to-night’s fighting ’s 
over. Have you a mind for Wonta? ” he con- 
tinued. 

“ I ’ve a mind for Wonta an’ many another 
as fine, but I ’m a married man,” he said, “ by 
priest and by book ; an’ I can ’t forget that, 
though the woman ’s to me as the pit below. ” 

Pierre looked curiously at him. “ You ’re 
a wonderful fool,” he said, “but I’m not sure 
that I like you less for that. There was Shon 
M’Gann — but it is no matter.” Here he sighed. 
“When to-night is over, you shall have work 
and fun that you ’ve been fattening for this 
many a year, and the woman '11 not find you, be 
sure of that. Besides — ” he whispered in Maca- 
voy’s ear. 

“ Poor divil, poor divil, she ’d always a throat 
for that; but it ’s a horrible death to die, I ’m 
thinkin’.” Macavoy’s chin dropped on his 
breast. 

When the sun was falling below Little Red 
Hill, Macavoy came to Wonta’s tent. Pierre 
was not far away. What occurred in the tent 


33 


A Lovely Bully 

Pierre never quite knew, but presently he saw 
Wonta run out in a frightened way, followed by 
the five half-breeds, who carried themselves 
awkwardly. Behind them again, with head 
shaking from one side to the other, traveled 
Macavoy; and they all marched away towards 
the Fort. 

‘‘ Well,” said Pierre to Wonta, “ he ’s amus- 
ing, eh? — so big a coward, eh?” 

“ No, no, ” she said, “you are wrong. He is 
no coward. He is a great brave. He spoke like 
a little child, but he said he would fight them all 
when—” 

“ When their turn came,” interposed Pierre, 
with a fine “bead” of humour in his voice; 
“well, you see he has much to do.” 

He pointed towards the Fort, where people 
were gathering fast. The strange news had 
gone abroad, and the settlement, laughing joy- 
ously, came to see Macavoy swagger: they did 
not think there would be fighting. 

Those whom Macavoy had challenged were 
not so sure. When the giant reached the open 
space in front of the Fort, he looked slowly 
round him. A great change had come over him. 
His skin seemed drawn together more firmly, 
and running himself up finely to his full height, 
he looked no longer the lounging braggart. 


An Adventurer of the North 


34 

Pierre measured him with his eye, and chuckled j 
to himself. Macavoy stripped himself of his ! 
coat and waistcoat, and rolled up his sleeves. | 
His shirt was flying at the chest. ! 

He beckoned to Pierre. i 

“Are you standin’ me frind in this?” he said. 
“Now and after,” said Pierre. j 

His voice was very simple. “ I never felt as ’ 
I do, since the day the coast-guardsmin dropped I 
on me in Ireland far away, an’ I drew blood, an’ | 
every wan o’ them — fine beautiful b’ys they j 

looked — stretchin’ out on the ground wan by | 

wan. D’ ye know the double-an’-twist ?” he | 
suddenly added, “ for it ’s a honey trick whin I 
they gather in an you, an’ you can ’t be layin’ | 

out wid yer fists. It plays the divil wid the ( 

spines av thim. Will ye have a drop av drink — j; 

cold wather, man — near, an’ a sponge betune f 

whiles? For there ’s many in the play — makin’ j 

up for lost time. Come an,” he added to the two 
settlers, who stood not far away, “ for ye began ! 
the trouble, an’ we ’ll settle accordin’ to a, b, c.” | 

Wiley and Hatchett, responding to his call, 1 
stepped forward, though they had now little j 
relish for the matter. They were pale, but they 
stripped their coats and waistcoats, and Wiley 
stood bravely in front of Macavoy. The giant ! 

■ooked down on him, arms folded. “ I said two ! 


35 


A Lovely Bully 

of you,” he crooned, as if speaking to a woman. 
Hatchett stepped forward also. An instant after 
the settlers were lying on the ground at different 
angles, bruised and dismayed, and little likely to 
carry on the war. Macavoy took a pail of water 
from the ground, drank from it lightly, and 
waited. None other of his opponents stirred. 
“There’s three Injins,” he said, “three rid 
divils, that wants showin’ the way to their happy 
huntin’ grounds. . . . Sure, y’ are cornin’, 
ain’t you, me darlins?” he added coaxingly, and 
he stretched himself, as if to make ready. 

Bareback, the chief, now harangued the three 
Indians, and they stepped forth warily. They 
had determined on strategic wrestling, and not 
on the instant activity of fists. But their wili- 
ness was useless, for Macavoy’s double-and-twist 
came near to lessening the Indian population of 
Fort O’Angel. It only broke a leg and an arm, 
however. The Irishman came out of the tangle 
of battle with a wild kind of light in his eye, his 
beard all torn, and face battered. A shout of 
laughter, admiration, and wonder went up from 
the crowd. There was a moment’s pause, and 
then Macavoy, whose blood ran high, stood 
forth again. The Trader came to him. 

“Must this go on?” he said; “haven’t you 
had your fill of it ?” 


36 An Adventurer of the North 

Had he touched Macavoy with a word of hu- 
mour the matter might have ended there; but 
now the giant spoke loud, so all could hear. 

“Had me fill av it, Trader, me angel ? I’m 
only gettin’ the taste av it. An’ ye ’ll plaze 
bring on yer men — four it was — for the feed av 
Irish pemmican.” 

The Trader turned and swore at Pierre, who 
smiled enigmatically. Soon after, two of the 
best fighters of the Company’s men stood forth. 
Macavoy shook his head. “Four, I said, an’ 
four I ’ll have, or I ’ll ate the heads aff these.” j 
Shamed, the Trader sent forth two more. All ! 
on an instant the four made a rush on the giant ; | 

and there was a stiff minute after, in which it j 
was not clear that he was happy. Blows rattled I 
on him, and one or two he got on the head, just ! 
as he spun a man senseless across the grass, j 
which sent him staggering backward for a mo- | 
ment, sick and stunned. I 

Pierre called over to him swiftly: “ Remember | 
Malahide ! ” i 

This acted on him like a charm. There never ! 
was seen such a shattered bundle of men as came ! 
out from his hands a few minutes later. As for 
himself, he had but a rag or two on him, but 
stood unmindful of his state, and the fever of bat- 
tle untamable on him. The women drew away. 


37 


A Lovely Bully 

“Now, me babes o’ the wood,” he shouted, 
“that sit at the feet av the finest Injin woman in 
the North — though she ’s no frind o’ mine — and 
are n’t fit to kiss her moccasin, come an wid you, 
till I have me fun wid yer spines.” 

But a shout went up, and the crowd pointed. 
There were the five half-breeds running away 
across the plains. 

The game was over. 

“ Here ’s some clothes, man ; for heaven’s sake 
put them on,” said the Trader. 

Then the giant became conscious of his con- 
dition, and like a timid girl he hurried into the 
clothing. 

The crowd would have carried him on their 
shoulders, but he would have none of it. 

“I’ve only wan frind here,” he said, “an’ 
it ’s Pierre, an’ to his shanty I go an’ no other.” 

“Come, mon ami,'' said Pierre, “for to-mor- 
row we travel far.” 

“And what for that?” asked Macavoy. 

Pierre whispered in his ear: “To make you a 
king, my lovely bully.” 


The Filibuster 


Pierre had determined to establish a king- j 
dom, not for gain, but for conquest’s sake. But j 
because he knew that the thing would pall, he | 
took with him Macavoy the giant, to make him | 
king instead. But first he made Macavoy from 
a lovely bully, a bulk of good-natured brag, into 
a Hercules of fight; for, having made him insult 
— and be insulted by — near a score of men at , 
Fort O’Angel, he also made him fight them by ! 
twos, threes, and fours, all on a summer’s even- [ 
ing, and send them away broken. Macavoy | 
would have hesitated to go with Pierre, were it 
not that he feared a woman. Not that he had 
wronged her ; she had wronged him : she had 
married him. { Anc^the Jear of one’s own wife i^^ I 
the worst fe^ in the world._ [ 

Bui thougli’liis heart went out to women, and j 
his tongue was of the race that beguiles, he stood | 
to his “lines” like a man, and people wondered. j 
Even Wonta, the daughter of Foot-in-the-Sun, 
only bent him, she could not break him to her 
will. Pierre turned her shy coaxing into irony 


The Filibuster 


39 


— that was on the day when all Fort O’ Angel 
conspired to prove Macavoy a child and not a 
warrior. But when she saw what she had done, 
and that the giant was greater than his years of 
brag, she repented, and hung a dead coyote at 
Pierre’s door as a sign of her contempt. 

Pierre watched Macavoy, sitting with a sponge 
of vinegar to his head, for he had had nasty jolt- 
ings in his great fight. A little laugh came sim- 
mering up to the half-breed’s lips, but dissolved 
into silence. 

“ We ’ll start in the morning,” he said. 

Macavoy looked up. “ Whin you plaze; but 
a word in your ear; are you sure she ’// not fol- 
low us?” 

“ She does n’t know. Fort Ste. Anne is in 
the south, and Fort Comfort, where we go, is far 
north.” 

“But if she kem!” the big man persisted. 

“ You will be a king ; you can do as other 
kings have done!” Pierre chuckled. 

The other shook his head. “ Says Father 
Nolan to me, says he, ‘ ’t is till death us do part, 
an’ no man put asunder’; an’ I ’ll stand by that, 
though I ’d slice out the bist tin years av me 
life, if I niver saw her face again.” 

“ But the girl, Wonta — what a queen she ’d 
make!” 


40 An Adventurer of the North 

“ Marry her yourself, and be king yourself, 
and be damned to you! For she, like the rest, 
laughed in me face, whin I told thim of the day 
whin I—” 

That 's nothing. She hung a dead coyote 
at my door. You do n’t know women. There ’ll 
be your breed and hers abroad in the land one 
day.” 

Macavoy stretched to his feet — he was so tall 
that he could not stand upright in the room. 
He towered over Pierre, who blandly eyed him. 
“ I ’ve another word for your ear,” he said 
darkly. “ Kape clear av the likes o’ that wid me. 
For I ’ve swallowed a tribe of divils. It ’s fightin’ 
you want. Well, I ’ll do it — I ’ve an itch for the 
throats of men, but a fool I ’ll be no more wid 
wimen, white or red — that hell-cat that spoilt me 
life an’ killed me child, or — ” 

A sob clutched him in the throat. 

“You had a child, then?” said Pierre gently. 

“ An angel she was, wid hair like the sun, an’ 
’d melt the heart av an iron god: none like her 
above or below. But the mother, ah, the mother 
of her! One day whin she ’d said a sharp word, 
wid another from me, an’ the child clinging to 
her dress, she turned quick and struck it, mean- 
in’ to anger me. Not so hard the blow was, but 
it sent the darlin’s head agin’ the chimney-stone. 


The Filibuster 


41 

and that was the end av it. For she took to her 
bed, an’ agin’ the crowin’ o’ the cock wan mid- 
night, she gives a little cry an’ snatched at me 
beard. ‘ Daddy,’ says she, ‘ daddy, it hurts!’ An’ 
thin she floats away, wid a stitch av pain at her 
lips.” 

Macavoy sat down now, his fingers fumbling 
in his beard. Pierre was uncomfortable. He 
could hear of battle, murder, and sudden death 
unmoved — it seemed to him in the game; but 
the tragedy of a child — a mere counter as yet in 
the play of life — that was different. He slid a 
hand over the table, and caught Macavoy’s arm. 

Poor little waif !” he said. 

Macavoy gave the hand a grasp that turned 
Pierre sick, and asked: “ Had ye iver a child av 
y’r own, Pierre — iver wan at all?” 

“ Never,” said Pierre dreamily, “ and I ’ve 
traveled far. A child — a child — is a wonderful 
thing. . . . Poor little waif !” 

They both sat silent for a moment. Pierre 
was about to rise, but Macavoy suddenly pinned 
him to his seat with this question: Did y’ iver 
have a wife thin, Pierre?” 

Pierre turned pale. A sharp breath came 
through his teeth. He spoke slowly: “ Yes, 
once.” 

“ And she died?” asked the other, awed. 


42 An Adventurer of the North 

“ We all have our day,” he replied enigmati- 
cally, “ and there are worse things than death. 

. . . Eh, well, mon ami., let us talk of other 

things. To-morrow we go to conquer. I know 
where I can get five men I want. I have ammu- 
nition and dogs.” 

A few minutes afterward Pierre was busy in 
the settlement. At the Fort he heard strange 
news. A new batch of settlers was coming from 
the south, and among them was an old Irish- 
woman who called herself now Mrs. Whelan, now 
Mrs. Macavoy. She talked much of the lad she 
was to find, one Tim Macavoy, whose fame gos- 
sip had brought to her at last. She had clung 
on to the settlers, and they could not shake her 
off. “ She was cornin’,” she said, “to her own 
darlin’ b’y, from whom she ’d been parted many 
a year, believin’ him dead, or T om Whelan had 
niver touched hand o’ hers.” 

The bearer of the news had but just arrived, 
and he told it only to the Trader and Pierre. 
At a word from Pierre the man promised to 
hold his peace. Then Pierre went to Wonta’s 
lodge. He found her with her father alone, 
her head at her knees. When she heard his 
voice she looked up sharply, and added a sharp 
word also. 

“Wait;” he said, “women are such fools. 


The Filibuster 


43 

You snapped your fingers in his face, and 
laughed at him. Well, that is nothing. He has 
proved himself great. That is something. He 
will be greater still, if the other woman does not 
find him. She should die, but then some women 
have no sense.” 

“The other woman !” said Wonta, starting to 
her feet; “who is the other woman ?” 

Old Foot-in-the-Sun waked and sat up, but 
seeing that it was Pierre, dropped again to sleep. 
Pierre, he knew, was no peril to any woman. 
Besides, Wonta hated the half-breed, as he 
thought. 

Pierre told the girl the story of Macavoy’s 
life ; for he knew that she loved the man after her 
heathen fashion, and that she could be trusted. 

“I do not care for that,” she said, when he 
had finished; “it is nothing. I would go with 
him. I should be his wife ; the other should die. 
I would kill her if she would fight me. I know 
the way of knives, or a rifle, or a pinch at the 
throat — she should die !” 

“Yes, but that will not do. Keep your hands 
free of her.” 

Then he told her that they were going away. 
She said she would go also. He said no to that, 
but told her to wait and he would come back for 
her. 


44 An Adventurer of the North 

Though she tried hard to follow them, they 
slipped away from the Fort in the moist gloom 
of the morning, the brown grass rustling, the 
prairie-hens fluttering, the osiers soughing as 
they passed, the Spirit of the North, ever hun- 
gry, drawing them on over the long Divides. 
They did not see each other’s faces till dawn. 
They were guided by Pierre’s voice ; none knew 
his comrades. Besides Pierre and Macavoy, 
there were five half-breeds — Noel, Little Babich e. 
Corvette, Jose, and Jacques Parfaite. When they 
came to recognize each other they shook hands 
and marched on. In good time they reached 
that wonderful and pleasant country between the 
Barren Grounds and the Lake of Silver Shallows. 
To the north of it was Fort Comfort, which they 
had come to take. Macavoy’s rich voice roared 
as of old, before his valour was questioned — and 
maintained — at Fort O’Angel. Pierre had di- 
verted his mind from the woman who, at Fort 
O’Angel, was even now calling heaven and earth 
to witness that “Tim Macavoy was her Macavoy 
and no other, an’ she ’d find him — the divil and 
darlin’, wid an arm like Broin Borhoime, an’ a 
chist you could build a house on — if she walked 
till Doomsday!” 

Macavoy stood out grandly, his fat all gone 
to muscle, blowing through his beard, puffing 


The Filibuster 


45 

his cheek, and ready with tale or song. But 
now that they were facing the business of their 
journey his voice got soft and gentle, as it did 
before the Fort, when he grappled his foes two 
by two and three by three, and wrung them out. 
In his eyes there was the thing which counts as 
many men in any soldier's sight, when he leads 
in battle. As he said himself, he was made for 
war, like Malachi o’ the Golden Collar. 

Pierre guessed that just now many of the 
Indians would be away for the summer hunt, and 
that the Fort would perhaps be held by only a 
few score of braves, who, however, would fight 
when they might easier play. He had no use- 
less compunctions about bloodshed. A human 
life he held to be a trifle in the big sum of time, 
and that it was of little moment when a man 
went, if it seemed his hour. He lived up to his 
creed, for he had ever held his own life as a bird 
upon a housetop which a chance stone might 
drop. 

He was glad afterward that he had decided 
to fight, for there was one in Fort Comfort 
against whom he had an old grudge — the Indian, 
Young Eye, who, many years before, had been 
one to help in killing the good Father Halen, 
the priest who dropped the water on his fore- 
head and set the cross on top of that, when he 


46 An Adventurer of the North 

was at his mother’s breasts. One by one the 
murderers had been killed, save this man. He 
had wandered north, lived on the Coppermine 
River for a long time, and at length had come 
down among the warring tribes at the Lake of 
Silver Shallows. 

Pierre was for direct attack. They crossed 
the lake in their canoes, at a point about five 
miles from the Fort, and so far as they could tell, 
without being seen. Then ammunition went 
round, and they marched upon the Fort. Pierre 
eyed Macavoy — measured him, as it were, for 
what he was worth. The giant seemed happy. 
He was humming a tune softly through his beard. 

Suddenly Jose paused, dropped to the foot of 
a pine, and put his ear to it. Pierre understood. 
He had caught at the same thing. “ There is a 
dance on,” said Jose, “ I can hear the drum.” 

Pierre thought a minute. “ We will recon- 
noitre,” he said presently. 

“ It is near night now,” remarked Little Ba- 
biche. “I know something of these. When 
they have a great snake dance at night, strange 
things happen.” Then he spoke in a low tone 
to Pierre. 

They halted in the bush, and Little Babiche 
went forward to spy upon the Fort. He came 
back just after sunset, reporting that the Indians 


The Filibuster 


47 


were feasting. He had crept near, and had 
learned that the braves were expected back from 
the hunt that night, and that the feast was for 
their welcome. 

The Fort stood in an open space, with tall 
trees for a background. In front, here and 
there, were juniper and tamarack bushes. Pierre 
laid his plans immediately, and gave the word to 
move on. Their presence had not been discov- 
ered, and if they could but surprise the Indians 
the Fort might easily be theirs. They made a 
ddtour, and after an hour came upon the Fort 
from behind. Pierre, himself, went forward 
cautiously, leaving Macavoy in command. When 
he came again he said: 

“ It ’s a fine sight; and the way is open. They 
are feasting and dancing. If we can enter with- 
out being seen, we are safe, except for food; we 
must trust for that.” 

When they arrived at the margin of the woods 
a wonderful scene was before them. A volcanic 
hill rose up on one side, gloomy and stern, but 
the reflection of the fires reached it, and made 
its sides quiver — the rock itself seemed trem- 
bling. The sombre pines showed up, a wall all 
round, and in the open space, turreted with fan- 
tastic fires, the Indians swayed in and out with 
weird chanting, their bodies mostly naked, and 


48 An Adventurer of the North 

painted in strange colours. The earth itself was 
still and sober. Scarce a star peeped forth. A 
purple velvet curtain seemed to hang all down 
the sky, though here and there the flame bronzed 
it. The Indian lodges were empty, save where 
a few children squatted at the openings. The 
seven stood still with wonder, till Pierre whis- 
pered to them to get to the ground and crawl 
close in by the walls of the Fort, following him. 
They did so, Macavoy breathing hard — too hard ; 
for suddenly Pierre clapped a hand on his mouth. 

They were now near the Fort, and Pierre had 
seen an Indian come from the gate. The brave 
was within a few feet of them. He had almost 
passed them, for they were in the shadow, but 
Jose had burst a puff-ball in his hand, and the 
dust flying up, made him sneeze. The Indian 
turned and saw them. With a low cry and the 
spring of a tiger, Pierre was at his throat ; and 
in another minute they were struggling on the 
ground. Pierre’s hand never let go. His com- 
rades did not stir; he had warned them to lie 
still. They saw the terrible game played out 
within arm’s length of them. They heard Pierre 
say at last, as the struggles of the Indian ceased: 
“Beast! You had Father Halen’s life. I have 
yours.” 


The Filibuster 


49 

There was one more wrench of the Indian’s 
limbs, and then he lay still. 

They crawled nearer the gate, still hidden 
in the shadows and the grass. Presently they 
came to a clear space. Across this they must 
go, and enter the Fort before they were dis- 
covered. They got to their feet, and ran with 
wonderful swiftness, Pierre leading, to the gate. 
They had just reached it when there was a cry 
from the walls, on which two Indians were 
sitting. The Indians sprang down, seized their 
spears, and lunged at the seven as they entered. 
One spear caught Little Babiche in the arm as 
he swung aside, but with the butt of his musket 
Noel dropped him. The other Indian was 
promptly handled by Pierre himself. By this 
time Corvette and Jose had shut the gates, and 
the Fort was theirs — an easy conquest. The 
Indians were bound and gagged. 

The adventurers had done it all without draw- 
ing the attention of the howling crowd without. 
The matter was in its infancy, however. They 
had the place, but could they hold it ? What 
food and water were there within ? Perhaps 
they were hardly so safe besieged as besiegers. 
Yet there was no doubt on Pierre’s part. He had 
enjoyed the adventure so far up to the hilt — 


50 An Adventurer of the North 

an old promise had been kept, and an old 
wrong avenged. 

“What’s to be done now?” said Macavoy. 
“ There ’ll be hell’s own racket; and they ’ll come 
an like a flood.” 

“ To wait,” said Pierre, “ and dam the flood 
as it comes. But not a bullet till I give the word. 
Take to the chinks. We ’ll have them soon.” 

He was right ; they came soon. Someone 
had found the dead body of Young Eye; then it 
was discovered that the gate was shut. A big 
shout went up. The Indians ran to their lodges 
for spears and hatchets, though the weapons of 
many were within the Fort, and soon they were 
about the place, shouting in impotent rage. 
They could not tell how many invaders were in 
the Fort; they suspected it was the Little Skins, 
their ancient enemies. But Young Eye, they 
saw, had not been scalped. This was brought 
to the old chief, and he called to his men to fall 
back. They had not seen one man of the invad- 
ers; all was silent and dark within the Fort; even 
the two torches which had been burning above 
the gate were down. At that moment, as if to 
add to the strangeness, a caribou came suddenly 
through the fires, and, passing not far from the 
bewildered Indians, plunged into the trees be- 
hind the Fort. 


The Filibuster 


51 

The caribou is credited with great powers. It 
is thought to understand all that is said to it, and 
to be able to take the form of a spirit. No 
Indian will come near it till it is dead, and he 
who kills it out of season is supposed to bring 
down all manner of evil. 

So at this sight they cried out — the women 
falling to the ground with their faces in their 
arms — that the caribou had done this thing. For 
a moment they were all afraid. Besides, as a 
brave showed, there was no mark on the body of 
Young Eye. 

Pierre knew quite well that this was a bull 
caribou, traveling wildly till he found another 
herd. He would carry on the deception. “Wail 
for the dead, as your women do in Ireland. 
That will finish them,” he said to Macavoy. 

The giant threw his voice up and out, so that 
it seemed to come from over the Fort to the 
Indians, weird and crying. Even the half-breeds 
standing by felt a light shock of unnatural ex- 
citement. The Indians without drew back slowly 
from the Fort, leaving a clear space between. 
Macavoy had uncanny tricks with his voice, and 
presently he changed the song into a shrill, wail- 
ing whistle, which went trembling about the 
place and then stopped suddenly. 

“ Sure, that ’s a poor game, Pierre,” he whis- 


52 An Adventurer of the North 

pered an’ I ’d rather be pluggin’ their hides 
wid bullets, or givin’ the double-an’-twist. It ’s 
fightin’ I come for, and not the trick av Mother 
Kilkevin!” 

Pierre arranged a plan of campaign at once. 
Every man looked to his gun, the gates were 
slowly opened, and Macavoy stepped out. Pierre 
had thrown over the Irishman’s shoulders the 
great skin of a musk-ox which he had found 
inside the stockade. He was a strange, immense 
figure, as he walked into the open space, and, 
folding his arms, looked round. In the shadow 
of the gate behind were Pierre and the half- 
breeds, with guns cocked. 

Macavoy had lived so long in the north that 
he knew enough of all the languages to speak to 
this tribe. When he came out a murmur of 
wonder ran among the Indians. They had never 
seen anyone so tall, for they were not great of 
stature, and his huge beard and wild shock of 
hair were a wonderful sight. He remained silent, 
looking on them. At last the old chief spoke. 
“ Who are you ?” 

“I am a great chief from the Hills of the 
Mighty Men, come to be your king,” was his 
reply. 

“ He is your king,” cried Pierre in a strange 


The Filibuster 


53 


voice from the shadow of the gate, and he 
thrust out his gun-barrel, so that they could 
see it. 

The Indians now saw Pierre and the half- 
breeds in the gateway, and they had not so much 
awe. They came a little nearer, and the women 
stopped crying. A few of the braves half raised 
their spears. Seeing this, Pierre instantly stepped 
forward to the giant. He looked a child in stat- 
ure thereby. He spoke quickly and well in the 
Chinook language. 

“This is a mighty man from the Hills of the 
Mighty Men. He has come to rule over you, to 
give all other tribes into your hands ; for he has 
strength like a thousand, and fears nothing of 
gods nor men. I have the blood of red men in 
me. It is I who have called this man from his 
distant home. I heard of your fighting and 
foolishness; also that warriors were to come 
from the south country to scatter your wives and 
children, and to make you slaves. I pitied you, 
and I have brought you a chief greater than any 
other. Throw your spears upon the ground, and 
all will be well ; but raise one to throw, or one 
arrow, or axe, and there shall be death among 
you, so that as a people you shall die. The 
spirits are with us. . . . Well?” 


54 An Adventurer of the North 

The Indians drew a little nearer, but they did 
not^drop their spears, for the old chief forbade 
them. 

‘‘We are not dogs or cowards,” he said, 
“though the spirits be with you, as we believe. 
We have seen strange things” — he pointed to 
Young Eye — “and heard voices not of men; 
but we would see great things as well as strange. 
There are seven men of the Little Skins’ tribe 
within a lodge yonder. They were to die when 
our braves returned from the hunt, and for that 
we prepared the feast. But this mighty man, he 
shall fight them all at once, and if he kills them 
he shall be our king. In the name of my tribe 
I speak. And this other,” pointing to Pierre, 
“he shall also fight with a strong man of our 
tribe, so that we shall know if you are all brave, 
and not as those who crawl at the knees of the 
mighty.” 

This was more than Pierre had bargained for. 
Seven men at Macavoy, and Indians, too, fight- 
ing for their lives, was a contract of weight. But 
Macavoy was blowing in his beard cheerfully 
enough. 

“Let me choose me ground,” he said, “wid 
me back to the wall, an’ I ’ll take thim as they 
come.” 

Pierre instantly interpreted this to the Indians, 


The Filibuster 


55 

and said for himself that he would welcome their 
strongest man at the point of a knife when he 
chose. 

The chief gave an order, and the Little Skins 
were brought. The fires still burned brightly, 
and the breathing of the pines, as a slight wind 
rose and stirred them, came softly over. The 
Indians stood off at the command of the chief. 
Macavoy drew back to the wall, dropped the 
musk-ox skin to the ground, and stripped him- 
self to the waist. But in his waistband there was 
what none of these Indians had ever seen — a 
small revolver that barked ever so softly. In the 
hands of each Little Skin there was put a knife, 
and they were told their cheerful exercise. They 
came on cautiously, and then suddenly closed 
in, knives flashing. But Macavoy’s little bulldog 
barked, and one dropped to the ground. The 
others fell back. The wounded man drew up, 
made a lunge at Macavoy, but missed him. As 
if ashamed, the other six came on again at a 
spring. But again the weapon did its work 
smartly, and one more came down. Now the 
giant put it away, ran in upon the five, and cut 
right and left. So sudden and massive was his 
rush that they had no chance. Three fell at his 
blows, and then he drew back swiftly to the wall. 
“Drop your knives,” he said, as they cowered, 


56 An Adventurer of the North 

“or I ’ll kill you all.” They did so. He dropped 
his own. 

“Now come an, ye scuts!” he cried, and sud- 
denly he reached and caught them, one with each 
arm, and wrestled with them, till he bent the one 
like a willow rod, and dropped him with a broken 
back, while the other was at his mercy. Suddenly 
loosing him, he turned him toward the woods, 
and said: “Run, ye rid divil, run for y’r life!” 

A dozen spears were raised, but the rifles of 
Pierre’s men came in between ; the Indian 
reached cover and was gone. Of the six others, 
two had been killed, the rest were severely 
wounded, and Macavoy had not a scratch. 

Pierre smiled grimly. “You ’ve been doing 
all the fighting, Macavoy,” he said. 

“There ’s no bein’ a king for nothin’,” he re- 
plied, wiping blood from his beard. 

“ It ’s my turn now, but keep your rifles ready, 
though I think there ’s no need.” 

Pierre had but a short minute with the cham- 
pion, for he was an expert with the knife. He 
carried away four fingers of the Indian’s fighting 
hand, and that ended it; for the next instant the 
point was at the red man’s throat. The Indian 
stood to take it like a man ; but Pierre loved 
that kind of courage, and shot the knife into its 
sheath instead. 


The Filibuster 


57 


The old chief kept his word, and after the 
spears were piled, he shook hands with Macavoy, 
as did his braves one by one, and they were all 
moved by the sincerity of his grasp : their arms 
were useless for some time after. They hailed 
as their ruler. King Macavoy I.; for men are like 
dogs — they worship him who beats them. The 
feasting and dancing went on till the hunters 
came back. Then there was a wild scene, but in 
the end all the hunters, satisfied, came to greet 
their new king. 

The king himself went to bed in the Fort that 
night, Pierre and his bodyguard — by name Noel, 
Little Babiche, Corvette, Jose, and Parfaite — its 
only occupants, singing joyfully — 

“ Did yees iver hear tell o’ Long Barney, 

That come from the groves o’ Killarney ? 

He wint for a king, oh, he wint for a king, 

But he niver kem back to Killarney 
Wid his crown, an’ his soord, an’ his army !” 

As a king Macavoy was a success, for the 
brag had gone from him. Like all his race he 
had faults as a subject, but the responsibility of 
ruling set him right. He found in the Fort an 
old sword and belt, left by some Company’s 
man, and these he furbished up and wore. 

With Pierre’s aid he drew up a simple con- 
stitution, which he carried in the crown of his 


58 An Adventurer of the North 

cap, and he distributed beads and gaudy trap- 
pings as marks of honour. Nor did he forget 
the frequent pipe of peace, made possible to all 
by generous gifts of tobacco. Anyone can found 
a kingdom abaft the Barren Grounds with to- 
bacco, beads, and red flannel. 

For very many weeks it was a happy king- 
dom. But presently Pierre yawned, and was 
ready to return. Three of the half-breeds were 
inclined to go with him. Jose and Little Ba- 
biche had formed alliances which held them 
there — besides. King Macavoy needed them. 

On the eve of Pierre’s departure a notable 
thing occurred. 

A young brave had broken his leg in hunt- 
ing, had been picked up by a band of another 
tribe and carried south. He found himself at 
last at Fort O’Angel. There he had met Mrs. 
Whelan, and for presents of tobacco, and purple 
and fine linen, he had led her to her consort. 
That was how the king and Pierre met her in the 
yard of Fort Comfort one evening of early 
autumn. Pierre saw her first, and was for turn- 
ing the King about and getting him away ; but 
it was too late. Mrs. Whelan had seen him, and 
she called out at him; 

“Oh, Tim ! me jool ! me king ! have I found 
ye, me imp’ror ! ” 


The Filibuster 


59 

She ran at him, to throw her arms round 
him. He stepped back, the red of his face 
going white, and said, stretching out his hand, 
“ Woman, y’ are me wife, I know, whativer y’ be; 
an’ y’ ve right to have shelter and bread av me; 
but me arms, an’ me bed, are me own to kape or 
to give; and by God, ye shall have nayther one 
nor the other! There ’s a ditch as wide as hell 
betune us!” 

The Indians had gathered quickly; they filled 
the yard, and crowded the gate. The woman 
went wild, for she had been drinking. She ran 
at Macavoy and spat in his face, and called down 
such a curse on him as whoever hears, be he the 
one that ’s cursed or any other, shudders at till 
he dies. Then she fell in a fit at his feet. Mac- 
avoy turned to the Indians, stretched out his 
hands and tried to speak, but could not. He 
stooped down, picked up the woman, carried 
her into the Fort, and laid her on a bed of skins. 

“What will you do?” asked Pierre. 

“ She is my wife,” he answered firmly. 

“She lived with Whelan.” 

“ She must be cared for,” was the reply. 
Pierre looked at him with a curious quietness. 
“ I ’ll get liquor for her,” he said presently. He 
started to go, but turned and felt the woman’s 
pulse. “You would keep her?” he asked. 


6o 


An Adventurer of the North 


“ Bring the liquor.’' 

Macavoy reached for water, and dipping the 
sleeve of his shirt in it, wetted her face gently. 

Pierre brought the liquor, but he knew that 
the woman would die. He stayed with Macavoy 
beside her all night. Toward morning her eyes 
opened and she shivered greatly. 

“ It ’s bither cold,” she said. “ You ’ll put 
more wood on the fire, Tim, for the babe must 
be kipt warrum.” 

She thought she was at Malahide. 

“Oh, wurra, wurra! but ’tis freezin’!” she 
said again. “ Why d’ ye kape the door opin 
whin the child ’s perishin’?” 

Macavoy sat looking at her, his trouble shak- 
ing him. 

“I ’ll shut the door meself, thin,” she added; 
“for ’t was I that lift it opin, Tim.” She started 
up, but gave a cry like a wailing wind, and fell 
back. 

“ The door is shut,” said Pierre. 

“ But the child ! the child ! ” said Macavoy, 
tears running down his face and beard. 


The Gift of the Simple King 

I 

Once Macavoy, the giant, ruled a tribe of 
Northern people, achieving the dignity by the 
hands of Pierre, who called him King Macavoy. 
Then came a time when, tiring of his kingship, 
he journeyed south, leaving all behind, even his 
queen, Wonta, who, in her bed of cypresses and 
yarrow, came forth no more into the morning. 
About Fort Guidon they still gave him his title, 
and because of his guilelessness, sincerity, and 
generosity, Pierre called him “ The Simple 
King.” His seven feet and over shambled 
about, suggesting un jointed power, unshackled 
force. No one hated Macavoy, many loved him, 
he was welcome at the fire and the cooking-pot: 
yet it seemed shameful to have so much man 
useless — such an engine of life, which might do 
great things, wasting fuel. Nobody thought 
much of that at Fort Guidon, except, perhaps, 
Pierre, who sometimes said, “ My simple king, 
some day you shall have your great chance 
again, but not as a king — as a giant, a man.” 

6i 


62 An Adventurer of the North 

The day did not come immediately, but it 
came. 

When Ida, the deaf and dumb girl, married 
Hilton, of the every man at Fort Guidon, 

and some from posts beyond, sent her or brought 
her presents of one kind or another. Pierre’s 
gift was a Mexican saddle. He was branding 
Ida’s name on it with the broken blade of a case- 
knife, when Macavoy entered on him, having just 
returned from a vagabond visit to Fort Ste. Anne. 

Is it digging out or carvin’ in y’ are?” he 
asked, puffing into his beard. 

Pierre looked up contemptuously, but did not 
reply to the insinuation, for he never saw an in- 
sult unless he intended to avenge it ; and he 
would not quarrel with Macavoy. 

“ What are you going to give?” he asked. 

“ Aw, give what to who, Hop-o’-me-thumb?” 
Macavoy said, stretching himself out in the door- 
way, his legs in the sun, his head in the shade. 

“You ’ve been taking a walk in the country, 
then ? ” Pierre asked, though he knew. 

“ To Fort Ste. Anne : a buryin’, two christ’- 
nin’s, and a weddin’ ; an’ lashin’s av grog an’ 
swill — aw that, me button o’ the North! ” 

“ Hey 1 What a fool you are, my simple 
king 1 You ’ve got the things end foremost. 
Turn your head to the open air, for I go to light 


The Gift of the Simple King 63 

a cigarette, and if you breathe this way, there 
will be a grand explode ! ” 

“ Aw, yer thumb in yer eye, Pierre ! It’s like 
a baby’s, me breath is, milk and honey it is — aw 
yis; an’ Father Corraine, that was doin’ the trick 
for the love o’ God, says he to me, ‘Little Tim 
Macavoy,’ — aw yis, little Tim Macavoy, — says he, 
‘ when are you goin’ to buckle to, for the love av 
God ! ’ says he. Ashamed I was, Pierre, that 
Father Corraine should spake to me like that, for 
I ’d only a twig twisted at me hips to kape me 
trousies up, an’ I thought ’twas that he had in 
his eye ! ‘ Buckle to,’ says I, ‘ Father Corraine? 

Buckle to, yer riv’rince ! ’ — feelin’ I was at the 
twigs the while. ‘ Ay, little Tim Macavoy,’ he 
says, says he, ‘you ’ve bin atin’ the husks av 
I idleness long enough ; when are you goin’ to 
I buckle to ? You had a kingdom and ye guv it 
I up,’ says he ; ‘ take a field, get a plough, and 
buckle to,’ says he, ‘ an’ turn back no more !’ — 
like that, says Father Corraine ; and I thinkin’ 
all the time ’twas the want o’ me belt he was 
drivin’ at ! ” 

Pierre looked at him a moment idly, then 
said: “Such a tom-fool! And where’s that 
grand leather belt of yours, eh, my monarch ? ” 
A laugh shook through Macavoy’s beard. 
“ For the weddin’ it wint ; buckled the two up 


64 An Adventurer of the North 

wid it for better or worse — an’ purty they looked, 
they did, standin’ there in me cinch, an’ one hole 
lift — aw yis, Pierre ! ” 

“ And what do you give to Ida ? ” Pierre 
asked, with a little emphasis of the branding-iron. 

Macavoy got to his feet. “ Ida ! Ida ! ” said 
he. “ Is that saddle for Ida ? Is it her and 
Hilton that’s to ate aff one dish togither ? That 
rose o’ the valley, that bird wid a song in her 
face and none an her tongue ! That daisy dot 
av a thing, steppin’ through the world like a 
sprig o’ glory ! Aw, Pierre, thim two ! — an I ’ve 
divil a scrap to give, good or bad. I ’ve nothin’ 
at all in the wide wurruld but the clothes on me 
back, an’ thim hangin’ on the underbrush ! ” 
— giving a little twist to the twigs. An’ many 
a meal an’ many a dipper o’ drink she’ s guv me, 
little smiles dancin’ at her lips.” 

He sat down in the doorway again, with his 
face turned toward Pierre, and the back of his 
head in the sun. He was a picture of perfect 
health, sumptuous, huge, a bull in beauty, the 
heart of a child looking out of his eyes, but a 
sort of despair, too, in his bearing. 

Pierre watched him with a furtive humour for 
a time, then he said languidly : “ Never mind 
your clothes, give yourself. ” 

‘‘Yer tongue inyer cheek, me spot o’ vinegar. 


The Gift of the Simple King 65 

Give meself ! What’s that for ? A purty wed- 
din’ gift, says I ! Handy thing to have in the 
house ! Use me for a clothes-horse, or shtand 
me in the garden for a fairy bower ! — aw yis, wid 
a hole in me face that ’d ate thim out o’ house 
and home ! ” 

Pierre drew a piece of brown paper toward 
him, and wrote on it with a burnt match. Pres- 
ently he held it up. “ Fot7a, my simple king, the 
thing for you to do : a grand gift, and to cost 
you nothing now. Come, read it out, and tell 
me what you think.” 

Macavoy took the paper, and in a large, judi- 
cial way, read slowly: 

On demand, for value received, I promise to 
pay to . . IDA HILTON, . . or order, 

meself, Tim Macavoy, standin^ seven foot three on 
me bare fut, wid interest at nothin' at all." 

Macavoy ended with a loud smack of the lips. 
‘‘McGuire!” he said, and nothing more. 

McGuire was his strongest expression. In 
the most important moments of his career he had 
said it, and it sounded deep, strange and more 
powerful than many usual oaths. A moment 
later he said again, “ McGuire ! ” Then he 
read the paper once more out loud. “What’s 
that, me Frenchman ? ” he said. “ What Ballze- 
boob’s tricks are y’ at now ? ” 


66 An Adventurer of the North 

Pierre was complacently eyeing his handi- 
work on the saddle. He now settled back with 
his shoulders to the wall, and said: “See, then, 
it ’s a little promissory note for a wedding-gift to 
Ida. When she says some day, ‘ Tim Macavoy, 
I want you to do this or that, or to go here or 
AHIre, or to sell you or trade you, or use you for 
a clothes-horse, or a bridge over a canyon, or to 
hold up a house, or blow out a prairie-fire, or be 
my second husband,’ you shall say, ‘ Here I am’; 
and you shall travel from Heaven to Halifax, but 
you shall come at the call of this promissory ! ” 

Pierre’s teeth glistened behind a smile as he 
spoke, and Macavoy broke into a roar of laugh- 
ter. “Black ’s the white o’ yer eye,” he said at 
last, “an’ a joke’s a joke. Seven fut three I 
am, an’ sound av wind an’ limb — an’ a weddin’- 
gift to that swate rose o’ the valley! Aisy, aisy, 
Pierre. A bit o’ foolin’ ’t was ye put on the 
paper, but truth I ’ll make it, me cock o’ the 
walk ! That ’s me gift to her an’ Hilton, an’ no 
other. An’ a dab wid red wax it shall have, an’ 
what more be the word o’ Freddy Tarlton the 
lawyer.” 

“You’re a great man,” said Pierre, with a 
touch of gentle irony, for his natural malice had 
no play against the huge ex-king of his own 
making. With these big creatures — he had con- 


The Gift of the Simple King 67 

nived with several in his time — he had ever been 
superior, protective, making them to feel that 
they were as children beside him. He looked at 
Macavoy musingly, and said to himself, ‘‘Well, 
why not ? If it is a joke, then it is a joke ; if it 
is a thing to make the world stand still for a 
minute some time, so much the better. He is all 
waste now. By the holy, he shall do it. It is 
amusing, and it may be great bye and bye.’’ 

Presently Pierre said aloud : “Well, my Mac- 
avoy, what will you do ? Send this good gift?” 

“Awyis, Pierre; I shtand by that from the 
crown av me head to the sole av me fut sure. 
Face like a mornin’ in May, and hands like the 
tunes of an organ, she has. Spakes wid a look 
av her eye and a twist av her purty lips an’ sway- 
ing body, an’ talkin’ to you widout a word. Aw 
motion — motion — motion ; yis, that ’s it. An’ 
I ’ve seen her an tap af a hill wid the wind blow- 
in’ her hair free, and the yellow buds on the 
tree, and the grass green beneath her feet, the 
world smilin’ betune her and the sun : pictures 
— pictures, aw yis ! Promissory notice on de- 
mand is at anny toime ? Seven fut three on me 
bare toes — but, Father o’ Sin ! when she calls I 
come, yis.” 

“On your oath, Macavoy?” asked Pierre; 
“by the book of the Mass ?” 


68 An Adventurer of the North 

Macavoy stood up straight till his head 
scraped the cobwebs between the rafters, the wild 
indignation of a child in his eye. “D’ ye think 
I ’m a thafe, to stale me own word ? Hut ! I ’ll 
break ye in two, ye wisp o’ straw, if ye doubt me 
word to a lady. There ’s me note av hand, and 
ye shall have me fist on it, in writin’ at Freddy 
Tarlton’s office, wid a blotch av red and the 
queen’s head at the bottom. McGuire he said 
again, and paused, puffing his lips through his 
beard. 

Pierre looked at him a moment, then waving 
his fingers idly, said, ‘‘So, my straw-breaker! 
Then to-morrow morning at ten you will fetch 
your wedding-gift. But come so soon now to 
M’sieu’ Tarlton’s office, and we will have it all 
as you say, with the red seal and the turn of your 
fist — ye^. Well, well, we travel far in the world, 
and,;^ometimes we see strange things, and no 
two strange things are alike — no ; there is only 
one Macavoy in the world, there was only one 
Shon M’Gann. Shon M’Gann was a fine fool, 
but he did something at last, truly yes: Tim 
Macavoy, perhaps, will do something at last on 
his own hook. Hey, I wonder!” 

He felt the muscles of Macavoy’s arm mus- 
ingly, and then laughed up in the giant’s face. 
“Once I made you a king, my own, and you 


The Gift of the Simple King . 69 

threw it all away; now I make you a slave, and 
we shall see what you will do. Come along, for 
M’sieu’ Tarlton.” 

Macavoy dropped a heavy hand on Pierre’s 
shoulder. 

“’T is hard to be a king, Pierre, but ’t is aisy 
to be a slave for the likes o’ her. I ’d kiss her 
dirty shoe sure ! ” 

As they passed through the door, Pierre said, 
^^Dis donCy perhaps, when all is done, she will 
sell you for old bones and rags. Then I will 
buy you, and I will burn your bones and the 
rags, and I will scatter to the four winds of the 
earth the ashes of a king, a slave, a fool, and an 
Irishman, — truly! ” 

“ Bedad, ye ’ll have more earth in yer hands 
then, Pierre, than ye ’ll ever earn, and more 
heaven than ye ’ll ever shtand in.” 

Half an hour later they were in Freddy Tarl- 
ton’s office on the banks of the Little Big Swan, 
which tumbled past, swelled by the first rain of 
the early autumn. Freddy Tarlton, who had a 
gift of humour, entered into the spirit of the 
thing and treated it seriously; but in vain did 
he protest that the large red seal with Her 
Majesty’s head on it was unnecessary; Macavoy 
insisted, and wrote his name across it with a 
large indistinctness worthy of a king. Before 


70 An Adventurer of the North 

the night was over everybody at Guidon Hill, 
save Hilton and Ida herself, knew what gift 
would come from Macavoy to the wedded pair. 

II 

The next morning was almost painfully beau- 
tiful, so delicate in its clearness, so exalted by 
the glory of the hills, so grand in the limitless 
stretch of the green-brown prairie north and 
south. It was a day for God’s creatures to meet 
in, and speed away, and having flown round the 
boundaries of that spacious domain, to return 
again to the nest of home on the large plateau 
between the sea and the stars, ^ath’ered about 
Ida’s home was everybody who^lived within a 
radius of a hundred miles. In the large front 
room all the presents were set : — rich furs from 
the far north, cunningly carved bowls, rocking- 
chairs made by hand, knives, cooking utensils, a 
copy of Shakespeare in six volumes from the 
Protestant missionary who performed the cere- 
mony, a nugget of gold from the Long Light 
River, and outside the door, a horse, Hilton’s 
own present to his wife, on which was put 
Pierre’s saddle, with its silver mounting and 
Ida’s name branded deep on pommel and strap. 
When Macavoy arrived, a cheer went up, which 


was carried on waves of laughter into the house 
to Hilton and Ida, who even then were listening 
to the first words of the brief service which be- 
gins, I charge you both if you do know any just 
cause or impediment — ” and so on. 

They did not turn to see what it was, for just 
at that moment they themselves were the very 
centre of the universe. Ida being deaf and 
dumb, it was necessary to interpret to her the 
words of the service by signs, as the missionary 
read it, and this was done by Pierre himself, the 
half-breed Catholic, the man who had brought 
Hilton and Ida together, for he and Ida had 
been old friends. After Father Corraine had 
taught her the language of signs, Pierre had 
learned them from her, until at last his gestures 
had become as vital as her own. The delicate 
precision of his every movement, the suggestive- 
ness of look and motion were suited to a lan- 
guage which was nearer to the instincts of his 
own nature than word of mouth. All men did 
not trust Pierre, but all women did ; with those 
he had a touch of Machiavelli, with these he 
had no sign of Mephistopheles, and few were 
the occasions in his life when he showed out- 
ward tenderness to either: which was equally 
effective. He had learnt, or knew by instinct, 
that exclusiveness as to men, and indifference as 


72 An Adventurer of the North 

to women, are the greatest influences on both. 
As he stood there, slowly interpreting to Ida, by 
graceful allusive signs, the words of the service, 
one could not think that behind his impassive 
face there was any feeling for the man or for the 
woman. He had that disdainful smile which 
men acquire, who are all their lives aloof from 
the hopes of the hearthstone, and acknowledge 
no laws but their own. 

More than once the eyes of the girl filled 
with tears, as the pregnancy of some phrase in 
the service came home to her. Her face re- 
sponded to Pierre’s gestures, as do one’s nerves 
to the delights of good music, and there was 
something so unique, so impressive in the cere- 
mony, that the laughter which had greeted 
Macavoy passed away, and a dead silence, begin- 
ning from where the two stood, crept out until 
it covered all the prairie. Nothing was heard ex- 
cept Hilton’s voice in strong tones saying, “ I 
take thee to be my wedded wife,'^ etc., but when 
the last words of the service were said, and 
the new-made bride turned to her husband’s 
embrace, and a little sound of joy broke from 
her lips, there was plenty of noise and laughter 
again, for Macavoy stood in the doorway, or 
rather outside it, stooping to look in upon the 
scene. Someone had lent him the cinch of a 


73 


The Gift of the Simple King 

broncho, and he had belted himself with it, no 
longer carrying his clothes about “ an the under- 
brush.” Hilton laughed and stretched out his 
hand. ‘‘ Come in. King,” he said, “ come and 
wish us joy.” 

Macavoy parted the crowd easily, forcing his 
way, and instantly was stooping before the pair 
— for he could not stand upright in the room. 

“ Aw, now, Hilton, is it you, is it you, that’s 
pluckin’ the roses av the valley, snatchin’ the 
stars out av the sky! aw, Hilton, the like o’ that 1 
Travel down I did yistiday from Fort Ste. 
Anne, and divil a word I knew till Pierre hit me 
in the eye wid it last night — and no time for a 
present, for a wedding gift — no, aw no ! ” 

Just here Ida reached up and touched him on 
the shoulder. He smiled down on her, puffing 
and blowing in his beard, bursting to speak to 
her, yet knowing no word by signs to say ; but 
he nodded his head at her, and he patted Hil- 
ton’s shoulder, and he took their hands and 
joined them together, her’s on top of Hilton’s, 
and shook them in one of his own till she almost 
winced. Presently, with a look at Hilton, who 
nodded in reply, Ida lifted her cheek to Macavoy 
to kiss — Macavoy, the idle, ill-cared-for, boister- 
ous giant. His face became red like that of a 
child caught in an awkward act, and with an ab- 


74 An Adventurer of the North 

surd shyness he stooped and touched her cheek. 
Then he turned to Hilton, and blurted out, 
“ Aw, the rose o’ the valley, the pride o’ the wide 
wurruld ! aw the bloom o’ the hills ! I ’d have 
kissed her dirty shoe. McGuire I ” 

A burst of laughter rolled out on the clear 
air of the prairie, and the hills seemed to stir 
with the pleasure of life. Then it was that Mac- 
avoy, following Hilton and Ida outside, suddenly 
stopped beside the horse, drew from his pocket 
the promissory note that Pierre had written, and 
said, “ Yis, but all the weddin -gifts are n’t in. 
’Tis nothin’ I had to give — divil a cint in the 
wurruld, divil a pound av baccy, or a pot for the 
fire, or a bit av linin for the table ; nothin’ but 
meself an me dirty clothes, standin’ seven feet 
three an me bare toes. What was I to do ? 
There was only meself to give, so I give it free 
and hearty, and here it is wid the Queen’s head 
an it, done in Mr. Tarlton’s office. Ye’d better 
have had a dog, or a gun, or a ladder, or a horse, 
or a saddle, or a quart of brown brandy; but 
such as it is I give it ye — I give it to the rose o’ 
the valley and the star o’ the wide wurruld.” 

In a loud voice he read the promissory note, 
and handed it to Ida. Men laughed till there 
were tears in their eyes, and a keg of whisky was 
opened ; but somehow Ida did not laugh. She 


The Gift of the Simple King 75 

and Pierre had seen a serious side to Macavoy’s 
gift : the childlike manliness in it. It went 
home to her woman’s heart without a touch of 
ludicrousness, without a sound of laughter. 

Ill 

After a time the interest in this wedding-gift 
declined at Fort Guidon, and but three people 
remembered it with any singular distinctness 
— Ida, Pierre and Macavoy. Pierre was inter- 
ested, for in his primitive mind he knew that, 
however wild a promise, life is so wild in its 
events, there comes the hour for redemption of 
all LO.U.’s. 

Meanwhile, weeks, months, and even a couple 
of years passed, Macavoy and Pierre coming and 
going, sometimes together, sometimes not, in all 
manner of words at war, in all manner of fact at 
peace. And Ida, out of the bounty of her na- 
ture, gave the two vagabonds a place at her fire- 
side whenever they chose to come. Perhaps, 
where speech was not given, a gift of divination 
entered into her instead, and she valued what 
others found useless, and held aloof from what 
others found good. She had powers which had 
ever been the admiration of Guidon Hill. Birds 
and animals were her friends — she called them 


76 An Adventurer of the North 

her kinsmen. A peculiar sympathy joined them ; 
so that when, at last, she tamed a white wild 
duck, and made it do the duties of a carrier- 
pigeon, no one thought it strange. 

Up in the hills, beside the White Sun River, 
lived her sister and her sister’s children ; and, by 
and by, the duck carried messages back and 
forth, so that when, in the winter, Ida’s health 
became delicate, she had comfort in the solicitude 
and cheerfulness of her sister, and the gaiety of 
the young birds of her nest, who sent Ida many 
a sprightly message and tales of their good va- 
grancy in the hills. In these days Pierre and 
Macavoy were little at the Post, save now and 
then to sit with Hilton beside the fire, waiting 
for spring and telling tales. Upon Hilton had 
settled that peaceful, abstracted expectancy which 
shows man at his best, as he waits for the time 
when, through the half-lights of his fatherhood, 
he shall see the broad fine dawn of motherhood 
spreading up the world — which, all being said 
and done, is that place called Home. Some- 
thing gentle came over him while he grew 
stouter in body and in all other ways made a 
larger figure among the people of the West. 

As Pierre said, whose wisdom was more to be 
trusted than his general morality, *‘it is strange 
that most men think not enough of themselves 


The Gift of the Simple King 77 

till a woman shows them how. But it is the 
great wonder that the woman does not despise 
him for it. Quel caractere / She has so often 
to show him his way like a babe, and yet she says 
to him, Mon grand homme / my master ! my 
lord ! Pshaw ! I have often thought that women 
are half saints, half fools, and men half fools, 
half rogues. But, quelle vie ! — what life ! with- 
out a woman you are half a man ; with one you 
are bound to a single spot in the world, you are 
tied by the leg, your wing is clipped — you can- 
not have all. Quelle vie 1 — what life ! ” 

To this Macavoy said : “Spit-spat ! But what 
the devil good does all yer thinkin’ do ye, 
Pierre ? It ’s argufy here and argufy there, an’ 
while yer at that, me an’ the rest av us is squeez- 
in’ the fun out o’ life. Aw, go ’long wid ye. 
Y’ are only a bit o’ hell an’ grammar, annyway. 
Wid all yer cuttin’ and carvin’ things to see the 
internals av thim, I ’d do more to the call av a 
woman’s finger than for all the logic and know- 
alogy y’ ever chewed — an’ there y’ are, me little 
tailor o’ jur’sprudince !” 

“To the finger call of Hilton’s wife, eh ?” 

Macavoy was not quite sure what Pierre’s 
enigmatical tone meant. A wild light shone in 
his eyes, and his tongue blundered out: “Yis, 
Hilton’s wife’s finger, or a look av her eye, or 


78 An Adventurer of the North 

nothin’ at all. Aisy, aisy, ye wasp ! ye ’d go 
stalkin’ divils in hell for her yerself, so ye 
would. But the tongue av ye — hut, it ’s gall to 
the tip !” 

“ Maybe, my king. But I ’d go hunting be- 
cause I wanted ; you because you must. You ’re 
a slave to come and to go, with a Queen’s seal 
on the promissory.” 

Macavoy leaned back and roared. “Aw, that ! 
The rose o’ the valley! the joy o’ the wurrld 1 
S’t, Pierre — ” his voice grew softer on a sudden, 
as a fresh thought came to him — “did y’ ever 
think that the child might be dumb like the 
mother ?” 

This was a day in the early spring, when the 
snows were melting in the hills, and freshets 
were sweeping down the valleys far and near. 
That night a warm heavy rain came on, and in 
the morning every stream and river was swollen 
to twice its size. The mountains seemed to have 
stripped themselves of snow, and the vivid sun 
began at once to color the foothills with green. 
As Pierre and Macavoy stood at their door, look- 
ing out upon the earth cleansing itself, Macavoy 
suddenly said: “Aw, look, look, Pierre — her 
white duck aff to the nest on Champak Hill ! ” 

They both shaded their eyes with their hands. 
Circling round two or three times above the 


79 


The Gift of the Simple King 

Post, the duck then stretched out its neck to the 
west, and floated away beyond Guidon Hill, and 
was hid from view. Pierre, without a word, be- 
gan cleaning his rifle, while Macavoy smoked, 
and sat looking into the distance, surveying the 
sweet warmth and light. His face blossomed 
with colour, and the look of his eyes was like 
that of an irresponsible child. Once or twice 
he smiled and puffed in his beard, but perhaps 
that was involuntary, or was, maybe, a vague 
reflection of his dreams, themselves most vague, 
for he was only soaking in sun and air and life. 

Within an hour they saw the wild duck again 
passing the crest of Guidon, and they watched 
it sailing down to the Post, Pierre idly fondling 
the gun, Macavoy half roused from his dreams. 
But presently they were altogether roused, the 
gun was put away, and both were on their feet ; 
for after the pigeon arrived there was a stir at 
the Post, and Hilton could be seen running 
from the store to his house, not far away. 

“ Something ’s wrong there,” said Pierre. 

“D’ye think ’t was the duck brought it?” 
asked Macavoy. 

Without a word Pierre started away toward 
the Post, Macavoy following. As they did so, a 
half-breed boy came from the house, hurrying 
toward them. 


8o An Adventurer of the North 

Inside the house Hilton’s wife lay on her 
bed, her great hour coming on before the time, 
because of ill news from beyond the Guidon. 
There was with her an old Frenchwoman, who 
herself, in her time, had brought many children 
into the world, whose heart brooded tenderly, if 
uncouthly, over the dumb girl. She it was who 
had handed to Hilton the paper the wild duck 
had brought, after Ida had read it and fallen in 
a faint on the floor. 

The message that had felled the young wife 
was brief and awful. A cloud-burst had fallen 
on Champak Hill, had torn part of it away, and 
a part of this part had swept down into the path 
that led to the little house, having been stopped 
by some falling trees and a great boulder. It 
blocked the only way to escape above, and 
beneath, the river was creeping up to sweep 
away the little house. So, there the mother and 
her children waited (the father was in the farthest 
north), facing death below and above. The wild 
duck had carried the tale in its terrible simplic- 
ity. The last words were, “ There may n’t be 
any help for me and my sweet chicks, but I am 
still hoping, and you must send a man or many. 
But send soon, for we are cut off, and the end 
may come any hour.” 

Macavoy and Pierre were soon at the Post, 




The Gift of the Simple King 8i 

and knew from Hilton all there was to know. 
At once Pierre began to gather men, though 
what one or many could do none could say. 
Eight white men and three Indians watched the 
wild duck sailing away again from the bedroom 
window where Ida lay, to carry a word of com- 
fort to Champak Hill. Before it went, Ida 
asked for Macavoy, and he was brought to her 
bedroom by Hilton. He saw a pale, almost un- 
earthly, yet beautiful face, flushing and paling 
with a coming agony, looking up at him ; and 
presently two trembling hands made those mys- 
tic signs which are the primal language of the 
soul. Hilton interpreted to him this : “ I have 
sent for you. There is no man so big or strong 
as you in the north. I did not know that I 
should ever ask you to redeem the note. I want 
my gift, and I will give you your paper with the 
Queen’s head on it. Those little lives, those 
pretty little dears, you will not see them die. If 
there is a way, any way, you will save them. 
Sometimes one man can do what twenty cannot. 
You were my wedding-gift : I claim you now.” 

She paused, and then motioned to the nurse, 
who laid the piece of brown paper in Macavoy’s 
hand. He held it for a moment as delicately as 
if it were a fragile bit of glass, something that 
his huge fingers might crush by touching. Then 


82 An Adventurer of the North 

he reached over and laid it on the bed beside 
her and said, looking Hilton in the eyes, “ Tell 
her, the slip av a saint she is! if the breakin’ av 
me bones, or the lettin’ av me blood ’s what ’ll 
set all right at Champak Hill, let her mind be 
aisy — aw yis!” 

Soon afterward they were all on their way — 
all save Hilton, whose duty was beside this other 
danger, for the old nurse said that, “like as 
not,” her life would hang upon the news from 
Champak Hill; and if ill came, his place was 
beside the speechless traveler on the Brink. 

In a few hours the rescuers stood on the top 
of Champak Hill, looking down. There stood 
the little house, as it were, between two dooms. 
Even Pierre’s face became drawn and pale as he 
saw what a very few hours or minutes might do. 
Macavoy had spoken no word, had answered no 
question since they had left the Post. There 
was in his eyes the large seriousness, the intent- 
ness which might be found in the face of a brave 
boy, who had not learned fear, and yet saw a 
vast ditch of danger at which he must leap. 
There was ever before him the face of the dumb 
wife ; there was in his ears the sound of pain 
that had followed him from Hilton’s house out 
into the brilliant day. 

The men stood helpless, and looked at each 


The Gift of the Simple King 83 

other. They could not say to the river that it 
must rise no farther, and they could not go to 
the house, nor let a rope down, and there was 
the crumbled moiety of the hill which blocked 
the way to the house : elsewhere it was sheer 
precipice without trees. 

There was no corner in these hills that Mac- 
avoy and Pierre did not know, and at last, when 
despair seemed to settle on the group, Macavoy, 
having spoken a low word to Pierre, said : 

“ There ’s wan way, an’ maybe I can an’ maybe 
I can ’t, but I ’m fit to try. I ’ll go up the river 
to an aisy p’int a mile above, get in, and drift 
down to a p’int below there, thin climb up and 
loose the stuff.” 

Every man present knew the double danger : 
the swift headlong river, and the sudden rush of 
rocks and stones, which must be loosed on the 
side of the narrow ravine opposite the little 
house. Macavoy had nothing to say to the 
head-shakes of the others, and they did not try 
to dissuade him ; for women and children were 
in the question, and there they were below near 
the house, the children gathered round the 
mother, she waiting — waiting. 

Macavoy stripped to the waist, and carrying 
only a hatchet and a coil of rope tied round him, 
started away alone up the river. The others 


84 


An Adventurer of the North 


waited, now and again calling comfort to the 
woman below, though their words could not be 
heard. About half an hour passed, and then 
some one called out : “ Here he comes ! ” Pres- 
ently they could see the rough head and the bare 
shoulders of the giant in the wild churning 
stream. There was only one point where he 
could get a hold on the hillside — the jutting bole 
of a tree just beneath them, and beneath the 
dyke of rock and trees. 

It was a great moment. The current swayed 
him out, but he plunged forward, catching at the 
bole. His hand seized a small branch. It held 
him an instant, as he was swung round, then it 
snapt. But the other hand clenched the bole, 
and to a loud cheer, which Pierre prompted, 
Macavoy drew himself up. After that they could 
not see him. He alone was studying the situa- 
tion. He found the key-rock to the dyked slide 
of earth. To loosen it was to divert the slide 
away, or partly away from the little house. But 
it could not be loosened from above, if at all, 
and he himself would be in the path of the de- 
stroying hill. 

“ Aisy, aisy, Tim Macavoy,” he said to him- 
self. “ It’s the woman and the darlin’s av her, 
an’ the rose o’ the valley down there at the 
Post ! ” 


The Gift of the Simple King 85 

A minute afterward, having chopped down a 
hickory sapling, he began to pry at the boulder 
which held the mass. Presently a tree came 
crashing down, and a small rush of earth fol- 
lowed it, and the hearts of the men above and 
the women and children below stood still for an 
instant. An hour passed as Macavoy toiled with 
a strange careful skill and a superhuman concen- 
tration. His body was all shining with sweat, 
and sweat dripped like water from his forehead. 
His eyes were on the key-rock and the pile, alert, 
measuring, intent. At last he paused. He 
looked round at the hills — down at the river, up 
at the sky — humanity was shut away from his 
sight. He was alone. A long hot breath broke 
from his lips, stirring his big red beard. Then 
he gave a call, a long call that echoed through 
the hills weirdly and solemnly. 

It reached the ears of those above like a 
greeting from an outside world. They answered, 
“ Right, Macavoy ! ” 

Years afterward these men told how then 
there came in reply one word, ringing roundly 
through the hills — the note and symbol of a 
crisis, the fantastic cipher of a soul — 

McGuire 

There was a loud booming sound, the dyke 
was loosed, the ravine spilt into the swollen 


86 An Adventurer of the North 

stream its choking mouthful of earth and rock : 
and a minute afterward the path was clear to 
the top of Champak Hill. To it came the un- 
harmed children and their mother, who, from 
the warm peak sent the wild duck “ to the rose 
o’ the valley,” which, till the message came, was 
trembling on the stem of life. But Joy, that 
marvellous healer, kept it blooming with a little 
Eden bird nestling near, whose happy tongue 
was taught in after years to tell of the gift of The 
Simple King : who had redeemed, on demand, 
the promissory note forever. 


Malachi 


“ He ’ll swing just the same to-morrow. Exit 
Malachi ! ” said Freddy Tarlton gravely. 

The door suddenly opened on the group of 
gossips, and a man stepped inside and took the 
only vacant seat near the fire. He glanced at 
none, but stretched out his hands to the heat, 
looking at the coals with drooping introspective 
eyes. 

“ Exit Malachi,” he said presently in a soft 
ironical voice, but did not look up. 

“ By the holy poker, Pierre, where did you 
spring from ? ” asked Tarlton genially. 

“ The wind bloweth where it listeth, and — ” 
Pierre responded, with a little turn of his fingers. 

“ And the wind does n’t tell where it ’s been, 
but that ’^no reason Pierre should n’t,” urged 
the other. 

Pierre shrugged his shoulders, but made no 
answer. 

“ He was a tough,” said a voice from the 
crowd. “ To-morrow he ’ll get the breakfast he ’s 
paid for.” 


87 


88 An Adventurer of the North 

Pierre turned and looked at the speaker with 
a cold inquisitive stare. “ Mon Dieu /” he said 
presently, “ here ’s this Gohawk playing preacher. 
What do you know of Malachi, Gohawk ? What 
do any of you know about Malachi ? A little of 
this, a little of that, a drink here, a game of 
euchre there, a ride after cattle, a hunt behind 
Guidon Hill ! — But what is that ? You have 
heard the cry of the eagle, you have seen him 
carry off a lamb, you have had a pot-shot at him, 
but what do you know of the eagle’s nest ? Mats 
non. The lamb is one thing, the nest is another. 
You don’t know the eagle till you’ ve be^there. 
And you, Gohawk, would not understand, if you 
saw the nest. Such cancan / ” 

“Shut your mouth!” broke out Gohawk. 
“D’ ye think I ’m going to stand your — ” 

Freddy Tarlton laid a hand on his arm. 
“Keep quiet, Gohawk. What good will it do?” 
Then he said, “Tell us about the nest, Pierre; 
they ’re hanging him for the lamb in the morn- 
ing.” 

“Who spoke for him at the trial?” Pierre 
asked. 

“I did,” said Tarlton. “I spoke as well as I 
could, but the game was dead against him from 
the start. The sheriff was popular, and young ; 
young — that was the thing ; handsome, too, and 


Malachi 


89 

the women, of course ! It was sure from the 
start; besides, Malachi would say nothing — 
did n’t seem to care.” 

“No, not to care,” mused Pierre. “What 
did you say for him to the jury? — I mean the 
devil of a thing to make them sit up and think, 
‘Poor Malachi !’— like that.” 

“Best speech y’ ever heard,” Gohawk inter- 
jected; ‘/just emptied the words out, spilt ’em 
like peas, by gol ! till he got to one place right 
before the end. Then he pulled up sudden, and 
it got so quiet you could ’a heard a pin drop. 
‘Gen’lemen of the jury,’ says Freddy Tarlton 
here — gen’lemen, by gol ! all that lot — Lagan 
and the rest ! ‘Gen’lemen of the jury,’ he says, 
‘be you danged well sure that you ’re at one with 
God A’mighty in this ; that you ’ve got at the 
core of justice here ; that you ’ve got evidence 
to satisfy Him who you ’ve all got to satisfy some 
day, or git out. Not evidence as to shootin’, but 
evidence as to what that shootin’ meant, an’ 
whether it was meant to kill, an’ what for.’ 

“ ‘The case is like this, gen’lemen of the jury,’ 
says Freddy Tarlton here. ‘Two men are in a 
street alone. There ’s a shot, out comes every- 
body, and sees Fargo the sheriff laid along the 
ground, his mouth in the dust, and a full-up gun 
in his fingers. Not forty feet away stands Mai- 


go An Adventurer of the North 

achi with a gun smokin^ in his fist. It seems to 
be the opinion that it was cussedness — just cuss- 
edness — that made Malachi turn the sheriff's 
boots to the sun. For Malachi was quarrelsome. 
I ’ll give you a quarter on that. And the sheriff 
was mettlesome, used to have high spirits, like 
as if he ’s lift himself over the fence with his 
boot-straps. So, when Malachi come and saw” 
the sheriff steppin’ round in his paten’ leathers, 
it give him the needle, and he got a bead on 
him — and away went Sheriff Fargo — right away! 
That seems to be the sense of the public.’ And 
he stops again, soft and quick, and looks the 
twelve in the eyes at once. ‘But,’ says Freddy 
Tarlton here, ‘are you goin’ to hang a man on 
the little you know? Or are you goin’ to credit 
him with somethin’ of what you do n’t know ? 
You haint got the inside of this thing, and Mal- 
achi does n’t let you know it, and God keeps 
quiet. But be danged well sure that you ’ve got 
the bulge on iniquity here ; for gen’lemen with 
pistols out in the street is one thing, and sittin’ 
weavin’ a rope in a courtroom for a man’s neck 
is another thing,’ says Freddy Tarlton here. 
‘ My client has refused to say one word this or 
that way, but do n’t be sure that Some One that 
knows the inside of things won’t speak for him 
in the end.’ 


Malachi 


91 


“Then he turns and looks at Malachi, and 
Malachi was standin’ still and steady like a tree, 
but his face was white, and sweat poured on his 
forehead. ‘ If God has no voice to be heard for 
my client in this courtroom to-day, is there no 
one on earth — no man or woman — who can 
speak for one who won’t speak for himself?’ 
says Freddy Tarlton here. Then, by gol ! for 
the first time Malachi opened. ‘ There ’s no 
one,’ he says. ‘The speakin’ is all for the sheriff. 
But I spoke once, and the sheriff did n’t answer.’ 
Not a bit of beg-yer-pardon in it. It struck cold. 
‘ I leave his case in the hands of twelve true men,’ 
says Freddy Tarlton here, and he sits down. 

“So they said he must walk the air?” sug- 
gested Pierre. 

“ Without leavin’ their seats,” some one added 
instantly. 

“So! But that speech of ‘Freddy Tarlton 
here’?” 

“ It was worth twelve drinks to me, no more, 
and nothing at all to Malachi,” said Tarlton. 
“ When I said I ’d come to him to-night to 
cheer him up, he said he ’d rather sleep. The 
missionary, too, he can make nothing of him. 
‘I don’t need anyone here,’ he says. ‘ I eat 
this off my own plate.’ And that ’s the end of 
Malachi.” 


92 An Adventurer of the North 

‘‘ Because there was no one to speak for him 
—eh? Well, well.” 

“ If he 'd said anything that 'd justify the 
thing — make it a manslaughter business or a 
quarrel — then! But no, not a word, up or down, 
high or low. Exit Malachi!” added Freddy 
Tarlton sorrowfully. “ I wish he ’d given me 
half a chance.” 

“ I wish I ’d been there,” said Pierre, taking 
a match from Gohawk, and lighting his cigar- 
ette. 

‘‘To hear his speech?” asked Gohawk, nod- 
ding toward Tarlton. 

“To tell the truth about it all. T ’sh, you 
bats, you sheep, what have you in your skulls ? 
When a man will not speak, will not lie to gain 
a case for his lawyer — or save himself, there is 
something 1 Now, listen to me, and 1 will tell 
you the story of Malachi. Then you shall judge. 

“I never saw such a face as that girl had 
down there at Lachine in Quebec. I knew her 
when she was a child, and I knew Malachi when 
he was on the river with the rafts, the foreman 
of a gang. He had a look all open then as the 
sun — yes. Happy ? Yes, as happy as a man 
ought to be. Well, the mother of the child died, 
and Malachi alone was left to take care of the 
little Norice. He left the river and went to work 


Malachi 


93 


in the mills, so that he might be with the child ; 
and when he got to be foreman there he used to 
bring her to the mill. He had a basket swung 
for her just inside the mill not far from him, 
right where she was in the shade ; but if she 
stretched out her hand it would be in the 
sun. I ’ve seen a hundred men turn to look at 
her where she swung, singing to herself, and 
then chuckle to themselves afterward as they 
worked. 

When Trevoor, the owner, come one day, 
and saw her, he swore, and was going to sack 
Malachi, but the child — that little Norice — 
leaned over the basket, and offered him an apple. 
He looked for a minute, then he reached up, 
took the apple, turned round, and went out of 
the mill without a word — so. Next month when 
he come he walked straight to her, and handed 
up to her a box of toys and a silver whistle. 
‘ That’s to call me when you want me,’ he said, 
as he put the whistle to her lips, and then he put 
the gold string of it round her neck. She was a 
wise little thing, that Norice, and noticed things. 
I don ’t believe that Trevoor or Malachi ever 
knew how sweet was the smell of the fresh saw- 
dust till she held it to their noses ; and it was 
she that had the saws — all sizes — start one after 
the other, making so strange a tune. She made 


94 An Adventurer of the North 

up a little song about fairies and others to sing 
to that tune. 

“And no one ever thought much about In- 
dian Island, off beyond the sweating, baking 
piles of lumber, and the blistering logs and tim- 
bers in the bay, till she told stories about it. 
Sure enough, when you saw the shut doors and 
open windows of those empty houses, all white 
without in the sun and dark within, and not a 
human to be seen, you could believe almost any- 
thing. You can think how proud Malachi was 
— ho ! She used to get plenty of presents from 
the men who had no wives or children to care 
for — little silver and gold things as well as 
others. She was fond of them, but no, not vain. 
She loved the gold and silver for their own sake.” 

Pierre paused. “ I knew a youngster once,” 
said Gohawk, “ that — ” 

Pierre waved his hand. “ I ’m not through, 
M ’sieu’ Gohawk the talker. Years went on. 
Now she took care of the house of Malachi. She 
wore the whistle that Trevoor gave her. He kept 
saying to her still, ‘ If ever you need me, little 
Norice, blow it, and I will come.’ He was droll; 
that M ’sieu’ Trevoor, at times. Well she did 
not blow, but still he used to come every year, 
and always brought her something. One year 
he brought his nephew, a young fellow of about 


Malachi 


95 


twenty-three. She did not whistle for him 
either, but he kept on coming. That was the 
beginning of ‘ Exit Malachi.’ The man was 
clever and bad, the girl believing and good. He 
was young, but he knew how to win a woman’s 
heart. When that is done, there is nothing 
more to do — she is yours for good or evil ; and 
if a man, through a woman’s love, makes her to 
sin, even his mother cannot be proud of him — 
no. But the man married Norice, and took her 
away to Madison, down in Wisconsin. Malachi 
was left alone — Malachi and Trevoor, for Tre- 
voor felt to her as a father. 

“ AlorSy sorrow come to the girl, for her hus- 
band began to play cards and to drink, and he 
lost much money. There was the trouble — the 
two together. They lived in a hotel. One day 
a lady missed a diamond necklace from her 
room. Norice had been with her the night 
before. Norice come into her own room the 
next afternoon, and found detectives searching. 
In her own jewel-case, which was tucked away in 
the pocket of an old dress, was found the neck- 
lace. She was arrested. She said nothing — for 
she waited for her husband, who was out of town 
that day. He only come in time to see her in 
court next morning. She did not deny any- 
thing ; she was quiet like Malachi. The man 


96 An Adventurer of the North 

played his part well. He had hid the necklace 
where he thought it would be safe, but when it 
was found, he let the wife take the blame — a lit- 
tle innocent thing. People were sorry for them 
both. She was sent to jail. Her father was 
away in the Rocky Mountains, and he did not 
hear ; Trevoor was in Europe. The husband 
got a divorce, and was gone. Norice was in jail 
for over a year, and then she was set free, for her 
health went bad, and her mind was going, they 
thought. She did not know till she come out 
that she was divorced. Then she nearly died. 
But then Trevoor come.” 

Freddy Tarlton’s hands were cold with ex- 
citement, and his fingers trembled so he could 
hardly light a cigar. 

“ Go on, go on, Pierre,” he said huskily. 

“ Trevoor said to her — he told me this him- 
self — ‘ Why did you not whistle for me. Norice ? 
A word would have brought me from Europe.’ 
‘No one could help me, no one at all,’ she 
answered. Then Trevoor said, ‘ I know who did 
it, for he has robbed me too.’ She sank in a 
heap on the floor. ‘ I could have stood it and 
anything for him, if he hadn’t divorced me,’ 
she said. Then they cleared her name before 
the world. But where was the man ? No one 
knew. At last Malachi, in the Rocky Mountains, 


Malachi 


97 

heard of her trouble, for Norice wrote to him, 
but told him not to do the man any harm, if he 
ever found him — ah, a woman, a woman ! . . . 
But Malachi met the man one day at Guidon 
Hill, and shot him in the street.” 

“ Fargo the sheriff! ” said half-a-dozen voices. 

“Yes; he had changed his name, had come 
up here, and because he was clever and spent 
money, and had a pull on someone, — got it at 
cards, perhaps, — he was made sheriff.” 

“In God’s name, why did n’t Malachi speak?” 
said Tarlton; “why didn’t he tell me this?” 

“ Because he and I had our own plans. The 
one evidence he wanted was Norice. If she 
would come to him in his danger, and in spite 
of his killing the man, good. If not, then he 
would die. Well, I went to find her and fetch 
her. I found her. There was no way to send 
word, so we had to come on as fast as we could. 
We have come just in time.” 

“ Do ye mean to say that she ’s here, Pierre?” 
said Gohawk. 

Pierre waved his hand emphatically. “ And 
so we came on with a pardon.” 

Every man was on his feet, every man’s 
tongue was loosed, and each ordered liquor 
for Pierre, and asked him where the girl was. 
Freddy Tarlton wrung his hand, and called a 


98 An Adventurer of the North 

boy to go to his rooms and bring three bottles 
of wine, which he had kept for two years, to 
drink when he had won his first big case. 

Gohawk was importunate. “Where is the 
girl, Pierre?” he urged. 

“Such a fool as you are, Gohawk! She is 
with her father.” 

A half-hour later, in a large sitting-room, 
Freddy Tarlton was making eloquent toasts over 
the wine. As they all stood drinking to Pierre, 
the door opened from the hallway, and Malachi 
stood before them. At his shoulder was a face, 
wistful, worn, yet with a kind of happiness, too ; 
and the eyes had depths which any man might 
be glad to drown his heart in. 

Malachi stood still, not speaking, and an awe 
or awkwardness fell on the group at the table. 

But Norice stepped forward a little, and said : 
“ May we come in?” 

In an instant Freddy Tarlton was by her side, 
and had her by the hand, her and her father, 
drawing them over. 

His ardent, admiring look gave Norice 
thought for many a day. 

And that night Pierre made an accurate 
prophecy. 


The Lake of the Great Slave 

When Tybalt the tale-gatherer asked why it 
was so called, Pierre said: “Because of the 
Great Slave;” and then paused. 

Tybalt did not hurry Pierre, knowing his 
whims. If he wished to tell, he would in his own 
time ; if not, nothing could draw it from him. 
It was nearly an hour before Pierre eased off 
from the puzzle he was solving with bits of paper 
and obliged Tybalt. He began as if they had 
been speaking the moment before : 

“They have said it is legend, but I know 
better. I have seen the records of the Com- 
pany, and it is all there. I was at Fort O’Glory 
once, and in a box two hundred years old the 
factor and I found it. There were other papers, 
and some of them had large red seals, and a 
name scrawled along the end of the page.” 

Pierre shook his head, as if in contented 
musing. He was a born story-teller. Tybalt 
was aching with interest, for he scented a thing 
of note. 

99 


LofC. 


100 An Adventurer of the North 

** How did any of those papers, signed with a 
scrawl, begin?” he asked. 

“ ‘ To our dearly-beloved' or something like 
that,” answered Pierre. “There were letters 
also. Two of them were full of harsh words, 
and these were signed with the scrawl.” 

“What was that scrawl ?” asked Tybalt. 

Pierre stooped to the sand, and wrote two 
words with his finger. “ Like that,” he an- 
swered. 

Tybalt looked intently for an instant, and 
then drew a long breath. “ Charles Rex," he 
said, hardly above his breath. 

Pierre gave him a suggestive sidelong glance. 
“That name was droll, eh ?” 

Tybalt’s blood was tingling with the joy of 
discovery. “ It is a great name,” he said, 
shortly. 

“ The Slave was great — the Indians said so 
at the last.” 

“ But that was not the name of the Slave ? ” 

“ Mais 7ion. Who said so ? Charles Rex — > 
like that ! was the man who wrote the letters.” 

“To the Great Slave ?” 

Pierre made a gesture of impatience. “ Very 
sure.” 

“Where are those letters now?” 

“With the Governor of the Company.” 


The Lake of the Great Slave loi 

Tybalt cut the tobacco for his pipe sav- 
agely. 

‘‘You’d have liked one of those papers?” 
asked Pierre, provokingly. 

“ I ’d give five hundred dollars for one ! ” 
broke out Tybalt. 

Pierre lifted his eyebrows. “ T’sh, what ’s the 
good of five hundred dollars up here? What 
would you do with a letter like that? ” 

Tybalt laughed with a touch of irony, for 
Pierre was clearly “rubbing it in.” 

“ Perhaps for a book ? ” gently asked Pierre. 

“Yes, if you like.” 

“ It is a pity. But there is a way.” 

“ How?” 

“ Put me in the book. Then — 

“ How does that touch the case ? ” 

Pierre shrugged a shoulder gently, for he 
thought Tybalt was unusually obtuse. Tybalt 
thought so himself before the episode ended. 

“ Go on,” he said, with clouded brow, but 
interested eye. Then, as if with sudden thought : 
“To whom were the letters addressed, Pierre ?” 

“ Wait ! ” was the reply. “ One letter said : 
‘ Good cousin. We are evermore glad to have 
thee and thy most excelling mistress near us. 
So, fail us not at our cheerful doings yonder at 
Highgate. ’ Another — a year after — said : 


102 An Adventurer of the North 

‘ Cousin, for the sweetening of our mind, get 
thee gone into some distant corner of our pas- 
turage — the farthest doth please us most. We 
would not have thee on foreign ground, for we 
bear no ill-will to our brother princes, and yet 
we would not have thee near our garden of good 
loyal souls, for thou hast a rebel heart and a 
tongue of divers tunes — thou lovest not the 
good old song of duty to thy prince. Obeying 
us, thy lady shall keep thine estates untouched ; 
failing obedience, thou wilt make more than thy 
prince unhappy. Fare thee well.’ That was 
the way of two letters,” said Pierre. 

“ How do you remember so ? ” 

Pierre shrugged a shoulder again. “ It is 
easy with things like that.” 

“But word for word?” 

“ I learned it word for word.” 

“Now for the story of the Lake — if you 
won’t tell me the name of the man.” 

“The name afterward — perhaps. Well, he 
came to that farthest corner of the pasturage, to 
the Hudson’s Bay country, two hundred years 
ago. What do you think ? Was he so sick of 
all, that he would go so far he could never get 
back ? Maybe those ‘ cheerful doings’ at High- 
gate, eh ? And the lady — who can tell ?” 

Tybalt seized Pierre’s arm. “You know 


The Lake of the Great Slave 103 

more. Damnation ! can 't you see I ’m on 
needles to hear ? Was there anything in the 
letters about the lady ? — anything more than 
you ’ve told ? ” 

Pierre liked no man’s hand on him. He 
glanced down at the eager fingers, and said 
coldly : 

“You are a great man ; you can tell a story 
in many ways, but I in one way alone, and that 
is my way — mais oui ! ” 

“Very well, take your own time.” 

“ Bien. I got the story from two heads. If 
you hear a thing like that from Indians, you call 
it legend ; if from the Company’s papers, you 
call it history. Well, in this there is not much 
difference. The papers tell precise the facts ; 
the legend gives the feeling, is more true. How 
can you judge the facts if you do n’t know the 
feeling ? No ! what is bad turns good some- 
times, when you know the how, the feeling, the 
place. Well, this story of the Great Slave — eh ! 

. . . There is a race of Indians in the far north 
who have hair so brown like yours, m’sieu’, and 
eyes no darker. It is said they are of those that 
lived at the Pole, before the sea swamped the 
Isthmus, and swallowed up so many islands. So 
in those days the fair race came to the south for 
the first time, that is, far below the Circle. They 


104 An Adventurer of the North 

had their women with them. I have seen those 
of to-day : fine and tall, with breasts like apples, 
and a cheek to tempt a man like you, m’sieu’ ; 
no grease in the hair — no, M’sieu’ Tybalt ! ” 

Tybalt sat moveless under the obvious irony, 
but his eyes were fixed intently on Pierre, his 
mind ever traveling far ahead of the tale. 

^^Alors: the ‘ good cousin’ of Charles Rex, 
he made a journey with two men to the Far-off 
Metal River, and one day this tribe from the 
north come on his camp. It was summer, and 
they were camping in the Valley of the Young 
Moon, more sweet, they say, than any in the 
north. The Indians cornered them. There was 
a fight, and one of the Company’s men was 
killed, and five of the other. But when the king 
of the people of the Pole saw that the great man 
was fair of face, he called for the fight to stop. 

“ There was a big talk all by signs, and the 
king said for the great man to come and be one 
with them, for they liked his fair face — their 
fore-fathers were fair like him. He should have 
the noblest of their women for his wife, and be a 
prince among them. He would not go : so they 
drew away again and fought. A stone-axe 
brought the great man to the ground. He was 
stunned, not killed. Then the other man gave 
up, and said he would be one of them if they 


The Lake of the Great Slave 105 

would take him. They would have killed him 
but for one of their women. She said that he 
should live to tell them tales of the south coun- 
try and the strange people, when they came 
again to their camp-fires. So they let him live, 
and he was one of them. But the chief man, 
because he was stubborn and scorned them, and 
had killed the son of their king in the fight, they 
made a slave, and carried him north a captive, till 
they came to this lake — the Lake of the Great 
Slave. 

“ In all ways they tried him, but he would 
not yield, neither to wear their dress nor to wor- 
ship their gods. He was robbed of his clothes, 
of his gold-handled dagger, his belt of silk and 
silver, his carbine with rich chasing, and all, and 
he was among them almost naked, — it was sum- 
mer, as I said, — yet defying them. He was 
taller by a head than any of them, and his white 
skin rippled in the sun like soft steel.” 

Tybalt \vas inclined to ask Pierre how he 
knew all this, but he held his peace. Pierre, as 
if divining his thoughts, continued : 

“You ask how I know these things. Very 
good : there are the legends, and there were the 
papers of the Company. The Indians tried 
every way, but it was no use ; he would have 
nothing to say to them. At last they come to 


I 06 An Adventurer of the North 

this lake. Now something great occurred. The 
woman who had been the wife of the king’s dead 
son, her heart went out in love of the Great 
Slave ; but he never looked at her. One day 
there were great sports, for it was the Feast of 
the Red Star. The young men did feats of 
strength, here on this ground where we sit. The 
king’s wife called out for the Great Slave to 
measure strength with them all. He would not 
stir. The king commanded him ; still he would 
not, but stood among them silent and looking 
far away over their heads. At last, two young 
men of good height and bone threw arrows at 
his bare breast. The blood came in spots. Then 
he give a cry through his beard, and was on 
them like a lion. He caught them, one in each 
arm, swung them from the ground, and brought 
their heads together with a crash, breaking their 
skulls, and dropped them at his feet. Catching 
up a long spear, he waited for the rest. But 
they did not come, for, with a loud voice, the 
king told them to fall back, and went and felt the 
bodies of the men. One of them was dead ; the 
other was his second son — he would live. 

‘ It is a great deed,’ said the king, ‘ for these 
were no children, but strong men.’ 

“Then again he offered the Great Slave 
women to marry, and fifty tents of deerskin for 


The Lake of the Great Slave 107 

the making of a village. But the Great Slave 
said no, and asked to be sent back to Fort 
O’Glory. 

‘‘The king refused. But that night, as he 
slept in his tent, the girl-widow came to him, 
waked him, and told him to follow her. He 
came forth, and she led him softly through the 
silent camp to that wood which we see over 
there. He told her she need not go on. With- 
out a word, she reached over and kissed him on 
the breast. Then he understood. He told her 
that she could not come with him, for there was 
that lady in England — his wife, eh ? But never 
mind, that will come. He was too great to save 
his life, or be free at the price. Some are born 
that way. They have their own commandments 
and they keep them. 

“ He told her that she must go back. She 
gave a little cry, and sank down at his feet, say- 
ing that her life would be in danger if she went 
back. 

“ Then he told her to come ; for it was in 
his mind to bring her to Fort O’ Glory, where 
she could marry an Indian there. But now she 
would not go with him, and turned toward the 
village. A woman is a strange creature — yes, 
like that ! He refused to go and leave her. 
She was in danger, and he would share it, what- 


io8 An Adventurer of the North 

ever it might be. So, though she prayed him 
not, he went back with her ; and when she saw 
that he would go in spite of all, she was glad : 
which is like a woman. 

“ When he entered the tent again, he guessed 
her danger, for he stepped over the bodies of 
two dead men. She had killed them. As she 
turned at the door to go to her own tent, another 
woman faced her. It was the wife of the king, 
who had suspected, and had now found out. 
Who can tell what it was ? Jealousy, perhaps. 
The Great Slave could tell, maybe, if he could 
speak, for a man always knows when a woman 
sets him high! Anyhow, that was the way it 
stood. In a moment the girl was marched back 
to her tent, and all the camp heard a wicked lie 
of the widow of the king’s son. 

“To it there was an end, after the way of 
their laws. The woman should die by fire, and 
the man as the king might will. So there was a 
great gathering in the place where we are, and 
the king sat against that big white stone, which 
is now as it was then. Silence was called, and 
they brought the girl-widow forth. The king 
spoke : 

“ ‘ Thou who hadst a prince for thy husband, 
didst go in the night to the tent of the slave 
who killed thy husband ; whereby thou also 


The Lake of the Great Slave 109 

becamest a slave, and didst shame the great- 
ness which was given thee. Thou shalt die, as 
has been set in our law.’ 

“ The girl-widow rose and spoke : ‘ I did 

not know, O king, that he whom thou mad’st a 
slave slew my husband, the prince of our people, 
and thy son. That was not told me. But had 
I known it, still would I have set him free, for 
thy son was killed in fair battle, and this man 
deserves not slavery or torture. I did seek the 
tent of the Great Slave, and it was to set him 
free — no more. For that did I go, and, for the 
rest, my soul is open to the Spirit Who Sees. I 
have done naught, and never did, nor ever will, 
that might shame a king, or the daughter of a 
king, or the wife of a king, or a woman. If to 
set a great captive free is death for me, then am 
I ready. I will answer all pure women in the 
far Camp of the Great Fires without fear. There 
is no more, O king, that I may say, but this : 
She who dies by fire, being of noble blood, may 
choose who shall light the faggots — is it not 
so?’ 

“ Then the king replied : Tt is so ; such is 
our law.’ 

“ There was counselling between the king 
and his oldest men, and so long were they hand- 
ing the matter back and forth that it looked as 


no An Adventurer of the North 

if she might go free. But the king’s wife, see- 
ing, came and spoke to the king and the 
others, crying out for the honor of her dead 
son ; so that in a moment of anger they all 
cried out for death. 

‘‘ When the king said again to the girl that 
she must die by fire, she answered : ‘ It is as the 
gods will. But it is so, as I said, that I may 
choose who shall light the fires ? ’ 

“ The king answered yes, and asked her whom 
she chose. She pointed towards the Great Slave. 
And all, even the king and his councillors, won- 
dered, for they knew little of the heart of women. 
What is a man with a matter like that ? Noth- 
ing — nothing at all. They would have set this 
for punishment : that she should ask for it was 
beyond them. Yes, even the king’s wife — it was 
beyond her. But the girl herself, see you, was 
it not this way ? — If she died by the hand of him 
she loved, then it would be easy, for she could 
forget the pain, in the thought that his heart 
would ache for her, and that at the very last he 
might care, and she should see it. She was 
great in her way also — that girl, two hundred 
years ago. 

A/ors, they led her a little distance off, — 
there is the spot, where you see the ground heave 
a little, — and the Great Slave was brought up. 


The Lake of the Great Slave 1 1 1 

The king told him why the girl was to die. He 
stood like stone, looking, looking at them. He 
knew that the girl’s heart was like a little child’s, 
and the shame and cruelty of the thing froze 
him silent for a minute, and the color flew from 
his face to here and there on his body, as a flame 
on marble. The cords began to beat and throb 
in his neck and on his forehead, and his eyes 
gave out fire like flint on an arrow-head. 

“Then he began to talk. He could not say 
much, for he knew so little of their language. 
But it was ‘No ! ’ every other word. ‘ No — no — 
no — no ! ’ the words ringing from his chest. 
‘ She is good ! ’ he said. ‘ The other — no ! ’ and 
he made a motion with his hand. ‘ She must 
not die — no ! Evil ? It is a lie ! I will kill 
each man that says it, one by one, if he dares 
come forth. She tried to save me — well ? ’ 

“ Then he made them know that he was of high 
place in a far country, and that a man like him 
would not tell a lie. That pleased the king, for 
he was proud, and he saw that the Slave was of 
better stuff than himself. Besides, the king was 
a brave man, and he had strength, and more than 
once he had laid his hand on the chest of the 
other, as one might on a grand animal. Per- 
haps, even then, they might have spared the girl 
was it not for the queen. She would not hear 


1 12 An Adventurer of the North 

of it. Then they tried the Great Slave, and he 
was found guilty. The queen sent him word to 
beg for pardon. So he stood out and spoke to 
the queen. She sat up straight, with pride in 
her eyes, for was it not a great prince, as she 
thought, asking ? But a cloud fell on her face, 
for he begged the girl’s life. Since there must 
be death, let him die, and die by fire in her 
place ! It was then two women cried out : the 
poor girl for joy — not at the thought that her 
life would be saved, but because she thought the 
man loved her now, or he would not offer to die 
for her ; and the queen for hate, because she 
thought the same. You can guess the rest : 
they were both to die, though the king was sorry 
for the man. 

‘‘The king’s speaker stood out and asked 
them if they had anything to say. The girl 
stepped forward, her face without any fear, but 
a kind of noble pride in it, and said : ‘ I am 
ready, O king.’ 

“The Great Slave bowed his head, and was 
thinking much. They asked him again, and he 
waved his hand at them. The king spoke up in 
anger, and then he smiled and said : ‘ O king, I 
am not ready ; if I die, I die.’ Then he fell to 
thinking again. But once more the king spoke : 

‘ Thou shalt surely die, but not by fire, nor now ; 


The Lake of the Great Slave 1 1 3 

nor till we have come to our great camp in our 
own country. There thou shalt die. But the 
woman shall die at the going down of the sun. 
She shall die by fire, and thou shalt light the 
faggots for the burning.' 

‘‘The Great Slave said he would not do it, 
not though he should die a hundred deaths. 
Then the king said that it was the woman’s right 
to choose who should start the fire, and he had 
given his word, which should not be broken. 

“When the Great Slave heard this he was 
wild for a little, and then he guessed altogether 
what was in the girl’s mind. Was not this the 
true thing in her, the very truest? Mais oui! 
That was what she wished — to die by his 
hand rather than by any other ; and something 
troubled his breast, and a cloud came in his 
eyes, so that for a moment he could not see. He 
looked at the girl, so serious, eye to eye. Per- 
haps she understood. So, after a time, he got 
calm as the farthest light in the sky, his face 
shining among them all with a look none could 
read. He sat down, and wrote upon pieces of 
bark with a spear-point — those bits of bark I 
have seen also at Fort O’Glory. He pierced 
them through with dried strings of the slippery- 
elm tree, and with the king’s consent gave them 
to the Company’s man, who had become one of 


An Adventurer of the North 


I14 

the people, telling him, if ever he was free, or 
could send them to the Company, he must do 
so. The man promised, and shame came upon 
him that he had let the other suffer alone ; and 
he said he was willing to fight and die if the 
Great Slave gave the word. But he would not ; 
and he urged that it was right for the man to 
save his life. For himself, no. It could never 
be ; and if he must die, he must die. 

“You see, a great man must always live alone 
and die alone, when there are only such people 
about him. So, now that the letters were writ- 
ten, he sat upon the ground and thought, look- 
ing often towards the girl, who was placed apart 
with guards near. The king sat thinking also. 
He could not guess why the Great Slave should 
give the letters now, since he was not yet to die, 
nor could the Company’s man show a reason 
when the king asked him. So the king waited, 
and told the guards to see that the Great Slave 
should not kill himself. 

“ But the queen wanted the death of the girl, 
and was glad beyond telling that the Slave must 
light the faggots. She was glad when she saw 
the young braves bring a long sapling from the 
forest, and, digging a hole, put it stoutly in the 
ground, and fetch wood, and heap it about. 

“ The Great Slave noted that the bark of the 


The Lake of the Great Slave 1 1 5 

sapling had not been stripped, and more than 
once he measured, with his eye, the space be- 
tween the stake and the shores of the Lake ; 
he did this most private, so that no one saw but 
the girl. 

At last the time was come. The Lake was 
all rose and gold out there in the west, and the 
water so still — so still. The cool, moist scent of 
the leaves and grass came out from the woods 
and up from the plain, and the world was so full 
of content that a man’s heart could cry out, 
even as now, while we look — eh, is it not good? 
See the deer drinking on the other shore there!” 

Suddenly he became silent, as if he had for- 
gotten the story altogether. Tybalt was impa- 
tient, but he did not speak. He took a twig, 
and in the sand he wrote “ Charles Rexl' Pierre 
glanced down and saw it. 

“There was beating of the little drums,” he 
continued, “and the crying of the king’s speaker; 
and soon all was ready, and the people gathered 
at a distance, and the king and the queen, and 
the chief men nearer ; and the girl was brought 
forth. 

“ As they led her past the Great Slave, she 
looked into his eyes, and afterwards her heart 
was glad, for she knew that at the last he would 
be near her, and that his hand should light the 


1 16 An Adventurer of the North 

fires. Two men tied her to the stake. Then 
the king’s man cried out again, telling of her 
crime, and calling for her death. The Great 
Slave was brought near. No one knew that the 
palms of his hands had been rubbed in the sand 
for a purpose. When he was brought beside the 
stake a torch was given him by his guards. He 
looked at the girl, and she smiled at him, and 
said : ‘ Good-bye. Forgive. I die not afraid, 

and happy.’ 

“ He did not answer, but stooped and lit the 
sticks here and there. All at once he snatched 
a burning stick, and it and the torch he thrust, 
like lightning, in the faces of his guards, blind- 
ing them. Then he sprang to the stake, and, 
with a huge pull, tore it from the ground, girl 
and all, and rushed to the shore of the Lake, 
with her tied so in his arms. 

“ He had been so swift, that, at first, no one 
stirred. He reached the shore, rushed into the 
water, dragging a boat out with one hand as he 
did so, and, putting the girl in, seized a paddle 
and was away with a start. A few strokes, and 
then he stopped, picked up a hatchet that was in 
the boat with many spears, and freed the girl. 
Then he paddled on, trusting, with a small hope, 
that through his great strength he could keep 
on ahead till darkness came, and then, in the 


The Lake of the Great Slave 117 

gloom, they might escape. The girl also seized 
an oar, and the canoe — the king’s own canoe — 
came on like a swallow. 

“ But the tribe was after tnem in fifty canoes, 
some coming straight along, some spreading 
out, to close in later. It was no equal game, for 
these people were so quick and strong with the 
oars, and they were a hundred or more to two. 
There could be but one end. It was what the 
Great Slave had looked for : to fight till the last 
breath. He should fight for the woman who 
had risked all for him — just a common woman 
of the north, but it seemed good to lose his 
life for her ; and she would be happy to die with 
him. 

So they stood side by side when the spears 
and arrows fell round them, and they gave death 
and wounds for wounds in their own bodies. 
When, at last, the Indians climbed into the 
canoe, the Great Slave was dead of many wounds, 
and the woman, all gashed, lay with her lips to 
his wet, red cheek. She smiled as they dragged 
her away ; and her soul hurried after his to the 
Camp of the Great Fires.” 

It was long before Tybalt spoke, but at last 
he said : “ If I could but tell it as you have 

told it to me, Pierre !” 

Pierre answered : “Tell it with your tongue. 


ri8 An Adventurer of the North 

and this shall be nothing to it, for what am I ? 
What English have I, a gipsy of the snows ? 
But do not write it, mais non! Writing wanders 
from the matter. The eyes, and the tongue, 
and the time, that is the thing. But in a book! 
— it will sound all cold and thin. It is for the 
north, for the camp-fire, for the big talk before 
a man rolls into his blanket, and is at peace. 
No 1 no writing, monsieur. Speak it everywhere 
with your tongue.” 

“ And so I would, were my tongue as yours. 
Pierre, tell me more about the letters at Fort 
O’Glory. You know his name — what was it? 

“You said five hundred dollars for one of 
those letters. Is it not?” 

“Yes.” Tybalt had a new hope. 

“T’sh! What do I want of five hundred 
dollars ! But, here, answer me a question : Was 
the lady — his wife, she that was left in England 
— a good woman ? Answer me out of your own 
sense, and from my story. If you say right you 
shall have a letter — one that I have by me.” 

Tybalt’s heart leaped into his throat. After a 
little he said huskily : “ She was a good woman 
— he believed her that, and so shall I.” 

“You think he could not have been so great 
unless, eh ? And that ‘ Charles Rex,’ what of 
him ?” 


The Lake of the Great Slave 119 

What good can it do to call him bad now ?” 

Without a word, Pierre drew from a leather 
wallet a letter, and, by the light of the fast-set- 
ting sun, Tybalt read it, then read it again, and 
yet again. 

“Poor soul! poor lady!” he said. “Was 
ever such another letter written to any man ? 
And it came too late ; this, with the king’s re- 
call, came too late ! ” 

“ So — so. He died out there where that wild 
duck flies — a Great Slave. Years after, the 
Company’s man brought word of all.” 

Tybalt was looking at the name on the out- 
side of the letter. 

“ How do they call that name ? ” asked 
Pierre. “ It is like none I ’ve seen — no.” 

Tybalt shook his head sorrowfully, and did 
not answer. 


The Red Patrol 


St. Augustine’s, Canterbury, had given him 
its licentiate’s hood, the Bishop of Rupert’s 
Land had ordained him, and the north had 
swallowed him up. He had gone forth with sur- 
plice, stole, hood, a sermon-case, the prayer- 
book, and that other book of all. Indian camps, 
trappers’ huts, and Company’s posts had given 
him hospitality, and had heard him with patience 
and consideration. At first he wore the surplice, 
stole, and hood, took the eastward position, and 
intoned the service, and no man said him nay, 
but watched him curiously and was sorrowful — 
he was so youthful, clear of eye, and bent on 
doing heroical things. 

But little by little there came a change. The 
hood was left behind at Fort O’Glory, where it 
provoked the derision of the Methodist mission- 
ary who followed him ; the sermon-case stayed 
at Fort O’Battle ; and at last the surplice itself 
was put by at the Company’s post at Yellow Quill. 
He was too excited and in earnest at first to see 
the effect of his ministrations, but there came 


120 


The Red Patrol 


t2t 

slowly over him the knowledge that he was talk- 
ing into space. He felt something returning on 
him out of the air into which he talked, and buf- 
fering him. It was the Spirit of the North, in 
which lives the awful natural, the large heart of 
things, the soul of the past. He awoke to his 
inadequacy, to the fact that all these men to 
whom he talked, listened, and only listened, and 
treated him with a gentleness which was almost 
pity — as one might a woman. He had talked 
doctrine, the Church, the sacraments, and at 
Fort O’Battle he faced definitely the futility of 
his work. What was to blame — the Church — 
religion — himself ? 

It was at Fort O’Battle he met Pierre, that he 
heard some one say over his shoulder as he 
walked out into the icy dusk : “ The voice of one 
crying in the wilderness. . . . and he had 

sackcloth about his loins, and his food was locusts 
and wild honey 

He turned to see Pierre, who in the large 
room of the Post had sat and watched him as he 
prayed and preached. He had remarked the 
keen, curious eye, the musing look, the habitual 
disdain at the lips. It had all touched him, con- 
fused him ; and now he had a kind of anger. 

“ You know it so well, why don ’t you preach 
yourself ? ” he said feverishly. 


122 An Adventurer of the North 

“ I have been preaching all my life,” Pierre 
answered drily. 

“ The devil’s games : cards and law-breaking ; 
and you sneer at men who try to bring lost sheep 
into the fold.” 

The fold of the Church — yes, I understand 
all that,” Pierre answered. “I have heard you 
and the priests of my father’s Church talk. 
Which is right ? But as for me, I am a mis- 
sionary. Cards, law-breaking — these are what I 
have done ; but these are not what I have 
preached.” 

“ What have you preached ?” asked the other, 
walking on into the fast gathering night, be- 
yond the Post and the Indian lodges, into the 
wastes where frost and silence lived. 

Pierre waved his hand towards space. 
“ This,” he said suggestively. 

“ What ’s /hs ? ” asked the other fretfully. 

“ The thing you feel round you here.” 

“ I feel the cold,” was the petulant reply. 

“ I feel the immense, the far off,” said Pierre 
slowly. 

The other did not understand as yet. 
“You’ve learned big words,” he said disdain- 
fully. 

“ No ; big things,” rejoined Pierre sharply — 
“ a few.” 


The Red Patrol 


123 

‘‘ Let me hear you preach them,” half snarled 
Sherburne. 

You will not like to hear them — no.” 

“ I 'm not likely to think about them one 
way or another,” was the contemptuous reply. 

Pierre’s eyes half closed. The young, im- 
petuous, half-baked college man! To set his 
little knowledge against his own studious vaga- 
bondage 1 At that instant he determined to 
play a game and win ; to turn this man into a 
vagabond also ; to see John the Baptist become 
a Bedouin. He saw the doubt, the uncertainty, 
the shattered vanity in the youth’s mind, the 
missionary’s half retreat from his cause. A cri- 
sis was at hand. The lad was fretful with his 
great theme, instead of being severe upon him- 
self. For days and days Pierre’s presence had 
acted on Sherburne silently but forcibly. He 
had listened to the vagabond’s philosophy, and 
knew that it was of a deeper — so much deeper 
— knowledge of life than he himself possessed, 
and he knew also that it was terribly true ; he 
was not wise enough to see it was only true in 
part. The influence had been insidious, deli- 
cate, cunning, and he himself was only “a voice 
crying in the wilderness,” without the simple 
creed of that voice. He knew that the Meth- 


124 An Adventurer of the North 

odist missionary was believed in more, if less 
liked, than himself. 

Pierre would work now with all the latent 
devilry of his nature to unseat the man from 
his saddle. 

You have missed a great thing, alors, though 
you have been up here two years,” he said. 
“ You do not feel ; you do not know. What 
good have you done ? Who has got on his 
knees and changed his life because of you ? 
Who has told his beads or longed for the Mass 
because of you ? Tell me, who has ever said, 
‘ You have showed me how to live ’ ? Even the 
women, though they cry sometimes when you 
sing-song your prayers, go on just the same 
when the little ‘ bless you’ is over. Why ? Most 
of them know a better thing than you tell them. 
Here is the truth : you are little — eh, so very 
^ittle. You never lied — direct ; you never stole 
the waters that are sweet ; you never knew the 
big dreams that come with wine in the dead of 
night ; you never swore at your own soul and 
heard it laugh back at you ; you never put your 
face in the breast of a woman — do not look so 
wild at me! — you never had a child; you 
never saw the world and yourself through the 
doors of real life. You never have said, ‘lam 
tired ; I am sick of all ; I have seen all.’ 


The Red Patrol 


125 


“You have never felt what came after — under- 
standing. Chut, your talk is for children — and 
missionaries. You are a prophet without a call, 
you are a leader without a man to lead, you are 
less than a child up here. For here the children 
feel a peace in their blood when the stars come 
out, and a joy in their brains when the dawn 
comes up and reaches a yellow hand to the Pole, 
and the west wind shouts at them. Holy Mother! 
we in the far north, we feel things ; for all 
the great souls of the dead are up there at the 
Pole in the pleasant land, and we have seen the 
Scarlet Hunter and the Kimash Hills. You 
have seen nothing. You have only heard, and 
because, like a child, you have never sinned, 
you come and preach to us 1 ” 

The night was folding down fast, all the stars 
were shooting out into their places, and in the 
north the white lights of the aurora were flying 
to and fro. 

Pierre had spoken with a slow force and 
precision, yet, as he went on, his eyes almost 
became fixed on those shifting flames, and a 
deep look came into them, as he was moved by 
his own eloquence. Never in his life had he 
made so long a speech at once. He paused, 
and then said suddenly : “ Come, let us run.” 

He broke into a long, sliding trot, and Sher- 


126 An Adventurer of the North 

burne did the same. With their arms gathered 
to their sides they ran for quite two miles with- 
out a word, until the heavy breathing of the 
clergyman brought Pierre up suddenly. 

‘‘ You do not run well,” he said ; “ you do 
not run with the whole body. You know so 
little. Did you ever think how much such men 
as Jacques Parfaite know ? The earth they read 
like a book, the sky like an animal’s ways, and 
a man’s face like — like the writing on the wall.” 

“ Like the writing on the wall,” said Sher- 
burne, musing ; for, under the other’s influence, 
his petulance was gone. He knew that he was 
not a part of this life, that he was ignorant of 
it ; of, indeed, all that was vital in it and in men 
and women. 

“ I think you began this too soon. You 
should have waited ; then you might have done 
good. But here we are wiser than you. You 
have no message — no real message — to give us ; 
down in your heart you are not even sure of 
yourself.” 

Sherburne sighed. “ I ’m of no use,” he 
said ; “ I ’ll get out ; I ’m no good at all.” 

Pierre’s eyes glistened. He remembered 
how, the day before, this youth had said hot 
words about his card-playing ; had called him 
— in effect — a thief ; had treated him as an in- 


The Red Patrol 127 

ferior, as became one who was of St. Augustine’s, 
Canterbury. 

“ It is the great thing to be free,” Pierre said, 
“ that no man shall look for this or that of you. 
Just to do as far as you feel — as far as you are 
sure — that is the best. In this you are not 
sure — no. Hein^ is it not ? ” 

Sherburne did not answer. Anger, distrust, 
wretchedness, the spirit of the alien, loneliness, 
were alive in him. The magnetism of this deep, 
penetrating man, possessed of a devil, was on 
him, and in spite of every reasonable instinct 
he turned to him for companionship. 

“It’s been a failure,” he burst out, “and 
I’m sick of it — sick of it ; but I can’t give it 
up.” 

Pierre said nothing. They had come to what 
seemed a vast semicircle of ice and snow — a 
huge amphitheatre in the plains. It was won- 
derful : a great round wall on which the north- 
ern lights played, into which the stars peered. 
It was open towards the north, and in one side 
was a fissure shaped like a gothic arch. Pierre 
pointed to it, and they did not speak till they 
had passed through it. Like great seats the 
steppes of snow ranged round, and in the center 
was a kind of plateau of ice, as it might seem a 
stage or an altar. To the north there was a huge 


128 


An Adventurer of the North 


opening, the lost arc of the circle, through 
which the mystery of the Pole swept in and out, 
or brooded there where no man may question 
it. Pierre stood and looked. Time and again 
he had been here, and had asked the same ques- 
tion : Who had ever sat on those frozen benches 
and looked down at the drama on that stage be- 
low ? Who played the parts ? was it a farce or 
a sacrifice? To him had been given the sorrow 
of imagination, and he wondered and wondered. 
Or did they come still — those strange people, 
whoever they were — and watch ghostly gladia- 
tors at their fatal sport ? If they came, when 
was it ? Perhaps they were there now, unseen. 
In spite of himself he shuddered. Who was the 
keeper of the house ? 

Through his mind there ran — pregnant to 
him for the first time — a chanson of the Scarlet 
Hunter, the Red Patrol, who guarded the sleepers 
in the Kimash Hills against the time they should 
awake and possess the land once more: the friend 
of the lost, the lover of the vagabond, and of all 
who had no home : 

“ Strangers come to the outer walls— 

( Why do the sleepers stir f) 

Strangers enter the Judgment House — 

( Why do the sleepers sigh .?) 

Slow they rise in their judgment seats, 


The Red Patrol 


129 


Sieve and measure the naked souls, 

Then with a blessing return to sleep — 

{Quiet the Judgment House.) 

Lone and sick are the vagrant souls — 

{When shall the world come home /) ” 

He reflected upon the words, and a feeling of 
awe came over him, for he had been in the White 
Valley and had seen the Scarlet Hunter. But 
there came at once also a sinister desire to play 
a game for this man’s life-work here. He knew 
that the other was ready for any wild move ; 
there was upon him the sense of failure and dis- 
gust ; he was acted on by the magic of the 
night, the terrible delight of the scene, and that 
might be turned to advantage. 

He said : “ Am I not right ? There is some- 
thing in the world greater than the creeds and 
the book of the Mass. To be free and to enjoy, 
that is the thing. Never before have you felt 
what you feel here now. And I will show you 
more. I will teach you how to know, I will lead 
you through all the north and make you to 
understand the big things of life. Then, when 
you have known, you can return if you will. But 
now — see : I will tell you what I will do. Here 
on this great platform we will play a game of 
cards. There is a man whose life I can ruin. 
If you win I promise to leave him safe, and to 


130 An Adventurer of the North 

go out of the far north forever, to go back to 
Quebec ” — he had a kind of gaming fever in his 
veins. “ If I win, you give up the Church, leav- 
ing behind the prayer-book, the Bible and all, 
coming with me to do what I shall tell you, for 
the passing of twelve moons. It is a great stake 
— will you play it ? Come ” — he leaned for- 
ward, looking into the other’s face — “ will you 
play it ? They drew lots — those people in the 
Bible. We will draw lots, and see, eh ? — and 
see ? ” 

I accept the stake,” said Sherburne, with a 
little gasp. 

Without a word they went upon that plat- 
form, shaped like an altar, and Pierre at once 
drew out a pack of cards, shuffling them with his 
mittened hands. Then he knelt down and said, 
as he laid out the cards one by one till there 
were thirty: “Whoever gets the ace of hearts 
first, wins — hein ? ” 

Sherburne nodded and knelt also. The cards 
lay back upward in three rows. For a moment 
neither stirred. The white, metallic stars saw it, 
the small crescent moon beheld it, and the deep 
wonder of night made it strange and dreadful. 
Once or twice Sherburne looked round as though 
he felt others present, and once Pierre looked 
out to the wide portals, as though he saw some 


The Red Patrol 


131 

one entering. But there was nothing to the eye 
— nothing. Presently Pierre said : “ Begin.” 

The other drew a card, then Pierre drew one, 
then the other, then Pierre again ; and so on. 
How slow the game was ! Neither hurried, but 
both, kneeling, looked and looked at the card 
long before drawing and turning it over. The 
stake was weighty, and Pierre loved the game 
more than he cared about the stake. Sherburne 
cared nothing about the game, but all his 
soul seemed set upon the hazard. There was 
not a sound out of the night, nothing stirring 
but the Spirit of the North. Twenty, twenty- 
five cards were drawn, and then Pierre paused. 

“ In a minute all will be settled,” he said. 
“ Will you go on, or will you pause ? ” 

But Sherburne had got the madness of chance 
in his veins now, and he said : “ Quick, quick, 
go on ! ” 

Pierre drew, but the great card held back. 
Sherburne drew, then Pierre again. There were 
three left. Sherburne’s face was as white as the 
snow around him. His mouth was open, and a 
little white cloud of frosted breath came out. 
His hand hungered for the card, drew back, then 
seized it. A moan broke from him. Then 
Pierre, with a little weird laugh, reached out and 
turned over — the ace of hearts. 


132 An Advenfurer of the North 

They both stood up. Pierre put the cards in 
his pocket. 

“ You have lost,” he said. 

Sherburne threw back his head with a reck- 
less laugh. The laugh seemed to echo and echo 
through the amphitheatre, and then from the 
frozen seats, the hillocks of ice and snow, there 
was a long, low sound, as of sorrow, and a voice 
came after : 

“ Sleep — sleep / Blessed be the just and the 
keepers of vows” 

Sherburne stood shaking as though he had 
seen a host of spirits. His eyes on the great 
seats of judgment, he said to Pierre : 

“ See ! see ! how they sit there ! grey and 
cold and awful ! ” 

But Pierre shook his head, 

“There is nothing,” he said, “nothing,” 
yet he knew that Sherburne was looking upon 
the men of judgment of the Kimash Hills, the 
sleepers. He looked round half fearfully, for 
if here were those great children of the ages, 
where was the keeper of the house, the Red 
Patrol ? 

Even as he thought, a figure in scarlet with a 
noble face and a high pride of bearing stood 
before them, not far away. Sherburne clutched 
his arm. 


The Red Patrol 


133 

Then the Red Patrol, the Scarlet Hunter, 
spoke : 

“ Why have you sinned your sins and bro- 
ken your vows within our house of judgment ? 
Know ye not that in the new springtime of the 
world ye shall be outcast, because ye have called 
the sleepers to judgment before their time ? 
But I am the hunter of the lost. Go you,” he 
said to Sherburne, pointing, “ where a sick man 
lies in a hut in the Shikam Valley In his soul 
find thine own again.” Then to Pierre : “ For 
thee, thou shalt know the desert and the storm 
and the lonely hills ; thou shalt neither seek nor 
find. Go, and return no more.” 

The two men, Sherburne falteringly, stepped 
down and moved to the open plain. They 
turned at the great entrance and looked back. 
Where they had stood there rested on his long 
bow the Red Patrol. He raised it, and a flam- 
ing arrow flew through the sky toward the 
south. They followed its course, and when they 
looked back a little afterward the great judg- 
ment - house was empty and the whole north 
was silent as the sleepers. 

At dawn they came to the hut in the 
Shikam Valley, and there they found a trapper 
dying. He had sinned greatly, and he could 
not die without some one to show him how. 


134 An Adventurer of the North 

to tell him what to say to the angel of the cross- 
roads. 

Sherburne, kneeling by him, felt his own 
new soul moved by a holy fire, and, first praying 
for himself, he said to the sick man : “ For if 
we confess our sins, He is faithful and fust to for- 
give us our sins, and to cleanse us from all un- 
righteousness. ’ ’ 

Praying for both, his heart grew strong, and 
he heard the sick man say, ere he journeyed 
forth to the cross-roads : 

“You have shown me the way; I have 
peace.” 

“ Speak for me in the Presence,” said Sher- 
burne, softly. 

The dying man could not answer, but that 
moment, as he journeyed forth on the Far Trail, 
he held Sherburne’s hand. 


The Going of the White Swan 

“Why don’t she come back, father ?” 

The man shook his head, his hand fumbled 
with the wolfskin robe covering the child, and 
he made no reply. 

“ She ’d come if she knew I was hurted, 
would n’t she ? ” 

The father nodded, and then turned rest- 
lessly toward the door, as though expecting 
some one. The look was troubled, and the pipe 
he held was not alight, though he made a pre- 
tence of smoking. 

“ Suppose the wildcat had got me, she ’d be 
sorry when she comes, wouldn’t she ?” 

There was no reply yet, save by gesture, the 
language of primitive man ; but the big body 
shivered a little, and the uncouth hand felt for 
a place in the bed where the lad’s knee made a 
lump under the robe. He felt the little heap 
tenderly, but the child winced. 

“ S-sh, but that hurts ! This wolf-skin ’s 
most too much on me, is n’t it, father ?” 

The man softly, yet awkwardly too, lifted the 
135 


136 An Adventurer of the North 

robe, folded it back, and slowly uncovered the 
knee. The leg was worn away almost to skin 
and bone, but the knee itself was swollen with 
inflammation. He bathed it with some water, 
mixed with vinegar and herbs, then drew down 
the deer-skin shirt at the child’s shoulder, and 
did the same with it. Both shoulder and knee 
bore the marks of teeth — where a huge wild- 
cat had made havoc — and the body had long 
red scratches. 

Presently the man shook his head sorrow- 
fully, and covered up the small disfigured frame 
again, but this time with a tanned skin of the 
caribou. The flames of the huge wood fire 
dashed the walls and floor with a velvety red and 
black, and the large iron kettle, bought of the 
Company at Fort Sacrament, puffed out geysers 
of steam. 

The place was a low hut with parchment 
windows and rough mud-mortar lumped between 
the logs. Skins hung along two sides, with 
bullet-holes and knife-holes showing : of the 
great grey wolf, the red puma, the bronze hill- 
lion, the beaver, the bear, and the sable; and 
in one corner was a huge pile of them. Bare 
of the usual comforts as the room was, it had a 
sort of refinement also, joined to an inexpress- 


The Going of the White Swan 137 

ible loneliness ; you could scarce have told how 
or why. 

“ Father,” said the boy, his face pinched with 
pain for a moment, “ it hurts so, all over, every 
once in a while.” 

His fingers caressed the leg just below the 
knee. 

“ Father,” he suddenly added, “what does it 
mean when you hear a bird sing in the middle 
of the night ? ” 

The woodsman looked down anxiously into 
the boy’s face. “ It has n’t no meaning, Domi- 
nique. There ain ’t such a thing on the Labra- 
dor Heights as a bird singin’ in the night. 
That ’s only in warm countries where there ’s 
nightingales. So — bien sur ! ” 

The boy had a wise, dreamy, speculative 
look. “Well, I guess it was a nightingale — it 
didn’t sing like any I ever heard.” 

The look of nervousness deepened in the 
woodman’s face. “ What did it sing like, Dom- 
inique ?” 

“So it made you shiver. You wanted it to 
go on, and yet you did n’t want it. It was pretty, 
but you felt as if something was going to snap 
inside of you.” 

“ When did you hear it, my son ? ” 


138 An Adventurer of the North 

“Twice last night — and — and I guess it 
was Sunday the other time. I do n’t know, for 
there hasn’t been no Sunday up here since 
mother went away — has there ?” 

“ Mebbe not.” 

The veins were beating like live cords in the 
man’s throat and at his temples. 

“’Twas just the same as Father Corraine 
bein’ here, when mother had Sunday, wasn’t 
it ?” 

The man made no reply ; but a gloom drew 
down his forehead, and his lips doubled in as if 
he endured physical pain. He got to his feet 
and paced the floor. For weeks he had listened 
to the same kind of talk from this wounded, 
and, as he thought, dying son, and he was get- 
ting less and less able to bear it. The boy at 
nine years of age was, in manner of speech, the 
merest child, but his thoughts were sometimes 
large and wise. The only white child within a 
compass of a thousand miles or so ; the lonely 
life of the hills and plains, so austere in winter, 
so melted to a sober joy in summer ; listening 
to the talk of his elders at camp-fires and on the 
hunting-trail, when, even as an infant almost, 
he was swung in a blanket from a tree or was 
packed in the torch-crane of a canoe ; and more 
than all, the care of a good, loving — if passion- 


The Going of the White Swan 139 

ate — little mother : all these had made him far 
wiser than his years. He had been hours upon 
hours each day alone with the birds, and squir- 
rels, and wild animals, and something of the 
keen scent and instinct of the animal world had 
entered into his body and brain, so that he felt 
what he could not understand. 

He saw that he had worried his father, and it 
troubled him. He thought of something. 

“Daddy,” he said, “let me have it.” 

A smile struggled for life in the hunter’s face, 
as he turned to the wall and took down the skin 
of a silver fox. He held it on his palm for a 
moment, looking at it in an interested, satisfied 
way, then he brought it over and put it into the 
child’s hands ; and the smile now shaped itself, 
as he saw an eager pale face buried in the soft 
fur. 

“ Good ! good ! ” he said involuntarily. 

Bon ! bon/'' said the boy’s voice from the 
fur, in the language of his mother, who added 
a strain of Indian blood to her French an- 
cestry. 

The two sat there, the man half-kneeling on 
the low bed, and stroking the fur very gently. 
It could scarcely be thought that such pride 
should be spent on a little pelt, by a mere 
backwoodsman and his nine-year-old son. One 


140 An Adventurer of the North 

has seen a woman fingering a splendid neck- 
lace, her eyes fascinated by the bunch of warm, 
deep jewels — a light not of mere vanity, or hun- 
ger, or avarice in her face — only the love of the 
beautiful thing. But this was an animal’s skin. 
Did they feel the animal underneath it yet, giv- 
ing it beauty, life, glory ? 

The silver-fox skin is the prize of the north, 
and this one was of the boy’s own harvesting. 
While his father was away he saw the fox creep- 
ing by the hut. The joy of the hunter seized 
him, and guided his eye over the “ sights ” of 
his father’s rifle as he rested the barrel on the 
window-sill, and the animal was his ! Now his 
finger ran into the hole made by the bullet, and 
he gave a little laugh of modest triumph. Min- 
utes passed as they studied, felt, and admired 
the skin, the hunter proud of his son, the son 
alive with a primitive passion, which inflicts 
suffering to get the beautiful thing. Perhaps 
the tenderness as well as the wild passion of the 
animal gets into the hunter’s blood, and tips his 
fingers at times with an exquisite kindness — as 
one has noted in a lion fondling her young, 
or in tigers as they sport upon the sands of the 
desert. This boy had seen his father shoot a 
splendid moose, and, as it lay dying, drop down 
and kiss it in the neck for sheer love of its hand- 


The Going of the White Swan 14 1 

someness. Death is no insult. It is the law of 
the primitive world — war, and love in war. 

They sat there for a long time, not speaking, 
each busy in his own way : the boy full of imag- 
inings, strange, half-heathen, half-angelic feel- 
ings ; the man roaming in that savage, romantic, 
superstitious atmosphere which belongs to the 
north, and to the north alone. At last the boy 
lay back on the pillow, his finger still in the 
bullet-hole of the pelt. His eyes closed, and he 
seemed about to fall asleep, but presently looked 
up and whispered : “ I have n’t said my prayers, 
have I ? ” 

The father shook his head in a sort of rude 
confusion. 

I can pray out loud if I want to, can’t I ?” 

“ Of course, Dominique.” The man shrank 
a little. 

I forget a good many times, but I know 
one all right, for I said it when the bird was 
singing. It is n’t one out of the book Father 
Corraine sent mother by Pretty Pierre ; it ’s one 
she taught me out of her own head. P’r’aps I ’d 
better say it.” 

P’r’aps, if you want to.” The voice was 
husky. 

The boy began : 

“ O bon J^su, who died to save us from our 


142 An Adventurer of the North 

sins, and to lead us to Thy country, where there 
is no cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, and where no 
one is afraid, listen to Thy child. . . . When 
the great winds and rains come down from the 
hills, do not let the floods drown us, nor the 
woods cover us, nor the snow-slide bury us, and 
do not let the prairie-fires burn us. Keep wild 
beasts from killing us in our sleep, and give us 
good hearts that we may not kill them in 
anger.” 

His finger twisted involuntarily into the bul- 
let-hole in the pelt, and he paused a moment. 

“ Keep us from getting lost, O gracious Sa- 
vior.” 

Again there was a pause, his eyes opened 
wide, and he said : 

Do you think mother ’s lost, father ? ” 

A heavy broken breath came from the father, 
and he replied haltingly : “ Mebbe, mebbe so.” 

Dominique’s eyes closed again. “ I ’ll make 
up some,” he said slowly: “And if mother’s 
lost, bring her back again to us, for everything’s 
going wrong.” 

Again he paused, then went on with the pray-er 
as it had been taught him. 

“Teach us to hear Thee whenever Thou call- 
est, and to see Thee when Thou visitest us, and 
let the blessed Mary and all the saints speak 


The Going of the White Swan 143 

often to Thee for us. O Christ, hear us. Lord 
have mercy upon us. * Christ, have mercy upon 
us. Amen.” 

Making the sign of the cross, he lay back, 
and said : “ I ’ll go to sleep now, I guess.” 

The man sat for a long time looking at the 
pale, shining face, at the blue veins showing 
painfully dark on the temples and forehead, 
at the firm little white hand, which was as brown 
as a butternut a few weeks before. The longer 
he sat, the deeper did his misery sink into his 
soul. His wife had gone he knew not where, 
his child was wasting to death, and he had for 
his sorrows no inner consolation. He had ever 
had that touch of mystical imagination insep- 
arable from the far north, yet he had none of 
that religious belief which swallowed up natural 
awe and turned it to the refining of life, and to 
the advantage of a man’s soul. Now it was 
forced in upon him that his child was wiser than 
himself ; wiser and safer. His life had been 
spent in the wastes, with rough deeds and rug- 
ged habits, and a youth of hardship, danger, 
and almost savage endurance had given him a 
half-barbarian temperament, which could strike 
an angry blow at one moment and fondle to 
death at the next. 

When he married sweet Lucette Barbond his 


144 Adventurer of the North 

religion reached little farther than a belief in 
the Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash Hills and 
those voices that could be heard calling in the 
night, till their time of sleep be past and they 
should rise and reconquer the north. 

Not even Father Corraine, whose ways were 
like those of his Master, could ever bring him 
to a more definite faith. His wife had at first 
striven with him, mourning yet loving. Some- 
times the savage in him had broken out over the 
little creature, merely because barbaric tyranny 
was in him — torture followed by the passionate 
kiss. But how was she philosopher enough to 
understand the cause ! 

When she fled from their hut one bitter day, 
as he roared some wild words at her, it was be- 
cause her nerves had all been shaken from 
threatened death by wild beasts (of this he did 
not know), ^nd his violence drove her mad. 
She had ran out of the house, and on, and on, 
and on — and she had never come back. That 
was weeks ago, and there had been no word nor 
sign of her since. The man was now busy with 
it all, in a slow, cumbrous way. A nature more 
to be touched by things seen than by things 
told, his mind was being awakened in a massive 
kind of fashion. He was viewing this crisis of 
his life as one sees a human face in the wide 


The Going of the White Swan 145 

searching light of a great fire. He was restless, 
but he held himself still by a strong effort, not 
wishing to disturb the sleeper. His eyes seemed 
to retreat farther and farther back under his 
shaggy brows. 

The great logs in the chimney burned bril- 
liantly, and a brass crucifix over the child’s head 
now and again reflected soft little flashes of 
light. This caught the hunter’s eye. Presently 
there grew up in him a vague kind of hope that, 
somehow, this symbol would bring him luck — 
that was the way he put it to himself. He had 
felt this — and something more — when Domi- 
nique prayed. Somehow, Dominique’s prayer 
was the only one he had ever heard that had 
gone home to him, had opened up the big 
sluices of his nature, and let the light of God 
flood in. No, there was another ; the one Lu- 
cette made on the day that they were married, 
when a wonderful timid reverence played 
through his hungry love for her. 

Hours pasg^ed. All at once, without any other 
motion or gesture, the boy’s eyes opened wide 
with a strange, intense look. 

“ Father,” he said slowly, and in a kind of 
dream, “when you hear a sweet horn blow at 
night, is it the Scarlet Hunter calling ?” 

“ P’r’aps. Why, Dominique ? ” He made 


146 An Adventurer of the North 

up his mind to humor the boy, though it gave 
him strange aching forebodings. He had seen 
grown men and women with these fancies — and 
they had died. 

heard one blowing just now, and the 
sounds seemed to wave over my head. Perhaps 
he ’s calling some one that’s lost.” 

“ Mebbe.” 

“And I heard a voice singing — it was n’t a 
bird to-night.” 

“ There was no voice, Dominique.” 

“Yes, yes.” There was something fine in 
the grave, courteous certainty of the lad. “I waked, 
and you were sitting there thinking, and I shut 
my eyes again, and I heard the voice. I remem- 
ber the tune and the words.” 

“What were the words ?” In spite of him- 
self the hunter felt awed. 

“ I ’ve heard mother sing them, or something 
most like them : » 

“ Why does the fire no longer burn ? 

(I am so lonely.) 

Why does the tent 'door swing outward ? 

(I have no home.) 

Oh, let me breathe hard in your face ! 

(I am so lonely.) 

Oh, why do you shut your eyes to me ? 

(I have no home.)” 


The Going of the White Swan 147 

The boy paused. 

“ Was that all, Dominique ?” 

No, not all.” 

“ Let us make friends with the stars ; 

(I am so lonely.) 

Give me your hand, I will hold it. 

(I have no home.) 

Let us go hunting together. 

(I am so lonely.) 

We will sleep at God’s camp to-night. 

(I have no home.)” 

Dominique did not sing, but recited the words 
with a sort of chanting inflection. 

“ What does it mean when you hear a voice 
like that, father ?” 

“I don’t know. Who told — your mother — 
the song ? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose she just 
made them up — she and God. . . . There ! 
There it is again ? Don’t you hear it — don’t 
you hear it, daddy ? ” 

“ No, Dominique, it ’s only the kettle sing- 
ing.” 

“A kettle isn’t a voice. Daddy — ” He 
paused a little, then went on, hesitatingly: “I 
saw a white swan fly through the door over your 
shoulder when you came in to-night.” 


148 An Adventurer of the North 

^‘No, no, Dominique, it was a flurry of snow 
blowing over my shoulder/’ 

“ But it looked at me with two shining eyes.” 

“That was two stars shining through the 
door, my son.” 

“How could there be snow flying and stars 
shining too, father ? ” 

“It was just drift-snow on a light wind, but 
the stars were shining above, Dominique.” 

The man’s voice was anxious and unconvinc- 
ing, his eyes had a hungry, hunted look. The 
legend of the White Swan had to do with the 
passing of a human soul. The swan had come 
in — would it go out alone ? He touched the 
boy’s hand — it was hot with fever ; he felt the 
pulse — it ran high ; he watched the face — it had 
a glowing light. Something stirred with him, 
and passed like a wave to the farthest course of 
his being. Through his misery he had touched 
the garment of the Master of Souls. As though 
a voice said to him there, “Someone hath 
touched me,” he got to his feet, and, with a sud- 
den blind humility, lit two candles, placed them 
on a shelf in a corner before a porcelain figure 
of the Virgin, as he had seen his wife do. Then 
he picked a small handful of fresh spruce twigs 
from a branch over the chimney, and laid them 
beside the candles. After a short pause he came 


The Going of the White Swan 149 

slowly to the head of the boy’s bed. Very sol- 
emnly he touched the foot of the Christ on the 
cross with the tips of his fingers, and brought 
them to his lips with an indescribable reverence. 
After a moment, standing with eyes fixed on the 
face of the crucified figure, he said, in a shaking 
voice : 

“ Pardon, bon Jesu I Sauves mon enfant I Ne 
me laissez pas seul! ” * 

The boy looked up with eyes again grown 
unnaturally heavy, and said : 

“ Amen ! . . . Bon Jesu / . . . Encore / 
Encore, mon pere / ” 

The boy slept. The father stood still by the 
bed for a time, but at last slowly turned and went 
toward the fire. 

Outside, two figures were approaching the 
hut — a man and a woman ; yet at first glance the 
man might easily have been taken for a woman, 
because of the long black robe which he wore, 
and because his hair fell loose on his shoulders 
and his face was clean-shaven. 

“ Have patience, my daughter,” said the 
man. “ Do not enter till I call you. But stand 
close to the door, if you will, and hear all.” 

So saying he raised his hand as in a kind of 
benediction, passed to the door, and after tap- 
* “ Pardon, good Jesus. Save my child. Leave me not alone.” 


150 


An Adventurer of the North 


ping very softly, opened it, entered, and closed 
it behind him — not so quickly, however, but 
that the woman caught a glimpse of the father 
and the boy. In her eyes there was the divine 
look of motherhood. 

“ Peace be to this house ! ” said the man 
gently, as he stepped forward from the door. 

The father, startled, turned shrinkingly on 
him, as if he had seen a spirit. 

“ M’sieu’ le cur^ !” he said in French, with 
an accent much poorer than that of the priest, 
or even of his own son. He had learned French 
from his wife ; he himself was English. 

The priest’s quick eye had taken in the 
lighted candles at the little shrine, even as he 
saw the painfully changed aspect of the man. 

“The wife and child, Bagot?” he asked, 
looking round. “Ah, the boy !” he added, and 
going toward the bed, continued, presently, in 
a low voice : “Dominique is ill ?” 

Bagot nodded, and then answered : “A wild- 
cat and then fever. Father Corraine.” 

The priest felt the boy’s pulse softly, then 
with a close personal look he spoke hardly above 
his breath, yet distinctly too : 

“Your wife, Bagot?” 

“She is not here, m’sieu’.” The voice was 
low and gloomy. 


The Going of the White Swan 1 5 1 

Where is she, Bagot?” 

“I do not know, m’sieu’.” 

“When did you see her last ?” 

“Four weeks ago, m’sieu’.” 

“That was September, this is October — 
winter. On the ranches they let their cattle 
loose upon the plains in winter, knowing not 
where they go, yet looking for them to return 
in the spring. But a woman — a woman and a 
wife — is different. . . . Bagot, you have been a 
rough, hard man, and you have been a stranger 
to your God, but I thought you loved your wife 
and child ! ” 

The hunter’s hands clenched, and a wicked 
light flashed up into his eyes ; but the calm, be- 
nignant gaze of the other cooled the tempest in 
his veins. The priest sat down on the couch 
where the child lay, and took the fevered hand 
in his very softly. 

“Stay where you are, Bagot, just there where 
you are, and tell me what your trouble is, and 
why your wife is not here. . . . Say all honestly 
— by the name of the Christ ! ” he added, lifting 
up a large iron crucifix that hung on his breast 

Bagot sat down on a bench near the fireplace 
the light playing on his bronzed, powerful face, 
his eyes shining beneath his heavy brows like 
two coals. After a moment he began : 


152 An Adventurer of the North 

“ I don’t know how it started. I ’d lost a lot 
of pelts — stolen they were, down on the Child o’ 
Sin River. Well, she was hasty and nervous, 
like as not — she always was brisker and more 
sudden than I am. I — I laid my powder-horn 
and whisky-flask — up there ! ” 

He pointed to the little shrine of the Virgin, 
where now his candles were burning. The 
priest’s grave eyes did not change expression at 
all, but looked out wisely, as though he under- 
stood everything before it was told. 

Bagot continued : “ I did n’t notice it, but 
she had put some flowers there. She said some- 
thing with an edge, her face all snapping angry, 
threw the things down, and called me a heathen 
and a wicked heretic — and I do n’t say now but 
she ’d a right to do it. But I let out then, for 
them stolen pelts were rasping me on the raw. 
I said something pretty rough, and made as if I 
was goin’ to break her in two — just fetched up 
my hands, and went like this ! — ” With a sin- 
gular simplicity he made a wild gesture with his 
hands, and an animal-like snarl came from his 
throat. Then he looked at the priest with the 
honest intensity of a boy. 

“ Yes, that was what you did — what was it you 
said which was ‘ pretty rough ’ ?” 


The Going of the White Swan 153 

There was a slight hesitation, then came the 
reply : 

I said there was enough powder spilt on 
the floor to kill all the priests in heaven.” 

A fire suddenly shot up into Father Corraine’s 
face, and his lips tightened for an instant, but 
presently he was as before, and he said : 

“ How that will face you one day, Bagot ! 
Go on. What else ? ” 

Sweat began to break out on Bagot’s face, 
and he spoke as though he were carrying a heavy 
weight on his shoulders, low and brokenly. 

“ Then I said, ‘ And if virgins has it so fine, 
why did n’t you stay one ? ” 

“ Blasphemer ! ” said the priest in a stern, 
reproachful voice, his face turning a little pale, 
and he brought the crucifix to his lips. “To 
the mother of your child — shame! What 
more ? ” 

“ She threw up her hands to her ears with a 
wild cry, ran out of the house, down the hills, 
and away. I went to the door and watched her 
as long as I could see her, and waited for her 
to come back — but she never did. I ’ve hunted 
and hunted, but I can’t find her.” Then, with 
a sudden thought, “ Do you know anything of 
her, m’sieu’ ? ” 


154 An Adventurer of the North 

The priest appeared not to hear the question. 
Turning for a moment toward the boy who now 
was in a deep sleep, he looked at him intently. 
Presently he spoke. 

“ Ever since I married you and Lucette Bar- 
bond you have stood in the way of her duty, 
Bagot. How well I remember that first day 
when you knelt before me ! Was ever so sweet 
and good a girl — with her golden eyes and the 
look of summer in her face, and her heart all 
pure ! Nothing had spoiled her — you cannot 
spoil such women — God is in their hearts. But 
you, what have you cared ? One day you would 
fondle her, and the next you were a savage — 
and she, so gentle, so gentle all the time I 
Then, for her religion and the faith of her child 
— she has fought for it, prayed for it, suffered 
for it. You thought you had no need, for you 
had so much happiness, which you did not de- 
serve — that was it. But she ! with all a woman 
suffers, how can she bear life — and man — with- 
out God ? No, it is not possible. And you 
thought you and your few superstitions were 
enough for her. — Ah, poor fool ! She should 
worship you ! So selfish, so small, for a man 
who knows in his heart how great God is. — You 
did not love her.” 


The Going of the White Swan 155 

“ By the Heaven above, yes ! ” said Bagot, 
half starting to his feet. 

“Ah, ‘by the Heaven above,’ no ! nor the 
child. For true love is unselfish and patient, 
and where it is the stronger, it cares for the 
weaker ; but it was your wife who was unselfish, 
patient, and cared for you. Every time she said 
an ave she thought of you, and her every thanks 
to the good God had you therein. They know 
you well in heaven, Bagot — through your wife. 
Did you ever pray — ever since I married you to 
her?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ When ? ” 

“ An hour or so ago.” 

Once again the priest’s eyes glanced towards 
the lighted candles. 

Presently he said : “You asked me if I had 
heard anything of your wife. Listen, and be 
patient while you listen. . . . Three weeks ago 
I was camping on the Sundust Plains, over 
against the Young Sky River. In the morning, 
as I was lighting a fire outside my tent, my 
young Cree Indian with me, I saw coming over 
the crest of a landwave, from the very lips of 
the sunrise, as it were, a band of Indians. I 
could not quite make them out. I hoisted my 


1 56 An Adventurer of the North 

little flag on the tent, and they hurried on to 
me. I did not know the tribe — they had come 
from near Hudson’s Bay. They spoke Chinook, 
and I could understand them. Well, as they 
came near, I saw that they had a woman with 
them.” 

Bagot leaned forward, his body strained, 
every muscle tense. “ A woman ! ” he said, as 
if breathing gave him sorrow — “my wife ! ” 

“ Your wife.” 

“Quick! Quick I Go on — oh, go on, 
m’sieu’ — good father.” 

“ She fell at my feet, begging me to save her. 
. . . I waved her off.” 

The sweat dropped from Bagot’s forehead, 
a low growl broke from him, and he made such 
a motion as a lion might make at its prey. 

“You wouldn’t — wouldn’t save her — you 
coward !” He ground the words out. 

The priest raised his palm against the other’s 
violence. “ Hush I . . . She drew away, saying 
that God and man had deserted her. . . . We 
had breakfast, the chief and I. Afterwards, 
when the chief had eaten much and was in good 
humor, I asked him where he had got the wo- 
man. He said that he had found her on the 
plains — she had lost her way. I told him then 
that I wanted to buy her. He said to me, 'What 


The Going of the White Swan 157 

does a priest want of a woman ? ’ I said that I 
wished to give her back to her husband. He 
said that he had found her, and she was his, and 
that he would marry her when they reached the 
great camp of the tribe. I was patient. It 
would not do to make him angry. I wrote 
down on a piece of bark the things that I would 
give him for her : an order on the Company at 
Fort o’ Sin for shot, blankets and beads. He 
said no.” 

The priest paused. Bagot’s face was all swim- 
ming with sweat, his body was rigid, but the 
veins of his neck knotted and twisted. 

“For the love of God go on!” he said 
hoarsely. 

“Yes, Tor the love of God.’ I have no 
money, I am poor, but the Company will always 
honor my orders, for I pay sometimes by the 
help of Christ. Bien^ I added some things to 
the list : a saddle, a rifle, and some flannel. But 
no, he would not. Once more I put many things 
down. It was a big bill — it would keep me 
poor for five years. — To save your wife, John 
Bagot, you who drove her from your door, 
blaspheming and railing at such as I. ... I 
offered the things, and told him that was all 
that I could give. After a little he shook his 
head, and said that he must have the woman for 


158 An Adventurer of the North 

his wife. I did not know what to add. I said 
— ‘ She is white, and the white people will never 
rest till they have killed you all, if you do this 
thing. The Company will track you down.’ 
Then he said, ‘ The whites must catch me and 
fight me before they kill me.’ . . . What was 
there to do ? ” 

Bagot came near to the priest, bending over 
him savagely : 

“You let her stay with them — you, with 
hands like a man ! ” 

“ Hush,” was the calm, reproving answer. 
“ I was one man, they were twenty.” 

“ Where was your God to help you, then ? ” 

“ Her God and mine was with me.” 

Bagot’s eyes blazed. “ Why did n’t you offer 
rum — rum ? They ’d have done it for that — 
one — five — ten kegs of rum !” 

He swayed to and fro in his excitement, yet 
their voices hardly rose above a hoarse 
whisper all the time. 

“You forget,” answered the priest, “that it 
is against the law, and that as a priest of my 
order I am vowed to give no rum to an In- 
dian.” 

“ A vow ! A vow ! Son of God ! what is a 
vow beside a woman — my wife ?” 

His misery and his rage were pitiful to see. 


The Going of the White Swan 159 

“ Perjure my soul ! Offer rum ! Break my 
vow in the face of the enemies of God’s Church ! 
What have you done for me that I should do 
this for you, John Bagot ?” 

“ Coward ! ” was the man’s despairing cry, 
with a sudden threatening movement. “Christ 
himself would have broke a vow to save her.” 

The grave, kind eyes of the priest met the 
other’s fierce gaze, and quieted the wild storm 
that was about to break. 

“ Who am I that I should teach my Master ?” 
he said, solemnly. “ What would you give 
Christ, Bagot, if He had saved her to you ?” 

The man shook with grief, and tears rushed 
from his eyes, so suddenly and fully had a new 
emotion passed through him. 

“ Give-^give !” he cried ; “I would give 
twenty years of my life !” 

The figure of the priest stretched up with a 
gentle grandeur. Holding out the iron crucifix, 
he said: “On your knees and swear it I John 
Bagot.” 

There was something inspiring, commanding, 
in the voice and manner, and Bagot, with a new 
hope rushing through his veins, knelt and re- 
peated his words. 

The priest turned to the door, and called, 
“ Madame Lucette ! ” 


i6o An Adventurer of the North 

The boy, hearing, waked, and sat up in bed 
suddenly. 

“ Mother ! mother ! ” he cried, as the door 
flew open. 

The mother came to her husband’s arms, 
laughing and weeping, and an instant afterwards 
was pouring out her love and anxiety over her 
child. 

Father Corraine now faced the man, and with 
a soft exaltation of voice and manner said: 

“ John Bagot, in the name of Christ, I de- 
mand twenty years of your life— of love and 
obedience of God. I broke my vow; I per- 
jured my soul; I bought your wife with ten kegs 
of rum ! ” 

The tall hunter dropped again to his knees, 
and caught the priest’s hand to kiss it. 

“ No, no — this!” the priest said, and xaid 
his iron crucifix against the other’s lips. 

Dominique’s voice came clearly through the 
room : 

“Mother, I saw the white swan fly away 
through the door when you came in.” 

“My dear, my dear,” she said, “there was no 
white swan.” But she clasped the boy to her 
breast protectingly, and whispered an ave. 

“Peace be to this house,” said the voice of 
the priest. 


The Going of the White Swan i6l 

And there was peace : for the child lived, 
and the man has loved, and has kept his vow, 
even unto this day. 

For the visions of the boy, who can know the 
divers ways in which God speaks to the children 
of men ! 


At Bamber’s Boom 

I 

His trouble came upon him when he was old. 
To the hour of its coming he had been of 
shrewd and humorous disposition. He had 
married late in life, and his wife had died, leav- 
ing him one child — a girl. She grew to woman- 
hood, bringing him daily joy. She was beloved 
in the settlement ; and there was no one at 
Bamber’s Boom, in the valley of the Madawaska, 
but was startled and sorry when it turned out 
that Dugard, the river-boss, was married. He 
floated away down the river, with his rafts and 
drives of logs, leaving the girl sick and shamed. 
They knew she was sick at heart, because she 
grew pale and silent; they did not know for 
some months how shamed she was. Then it 
was that Mrs. Lauder, the sister of the Roman 
Catholic missionary. Father Halen, being a 
woman of notable character and kindness, visited 
her and begged her to tell all. 

Though the girl — Nora — was a Protestant, 
Mrs. Lauder did so : but it brought sore grief to 
162 


At Bamber’s Boom 163 

her. At first she could hardly bear to look at 
the girl’s face, it was so hopeless, so numb to 
the world : it had the indifference of despair. 
Rumor now became hateful fact. When the 
old man was told, he gave one loud cry, then 
sat down, his hands pressed hard between his 
knees, his body trembling, his eyes staring be- 
fore him. 

It was Father Halen who told him. He did 
it as man to man, and not as a priest, having 
traveled fifty miles for the purpose. “George 
Magor,” said he, “it’s bad, I know, but bear it — 
with the help of God. And be kind to the girl.” 

The old man answered nothing. “My 
friend,” the priest continued, “I hope you’ll 
forgive me for telling you. I thought ’twould 
be better from me, than to have it thrown at you 
in the settlement. We’ve been friends one way 
and another, and my heart aches for you, and 
my prayers go with you.” 

The old man raised his sunken eyes, all their 
keen humor gone, and spoke as though each 
word were dug from his heart. “Say no more. 
Father Halen.” Then he reached out, caught 
the priest’s hand in his gnarled fingers, and 
wrung it. 

The father never spoke a harsh word to the 
girl. Otherwise he seemed to harden into stone. 


164 An Adventurer of the North 

When the Protestant missionary came, he would 
not see him. The child was born before the 
river-drivers came along again the next year with 
their rafts and logs. There was a feeling abroad 
that it would be ill for Dugard if he chanced to 
camp at Bamber’s Boom. The look of the old 
man’s face was ominous, and he was known to 
have an iron will. 

Dugard was a handsome man, half French, 
half Scotch, swarthy and admirably made. He 
was proud of his strength, and showily fearless 
in danger. For there were dangerous hours to 
the river life; when, for instance, a mass of logs 
became jammed at a rapids, and must be 
loosened ; or a crib struck into the wrong chan- 
nel, or, failing to enter a slide straight, came at 
a nasty angle to it, its timbers wrenched and 
tore apart, and its crew, with their great oars, 
were plumped into the busy current. He had 
been known to stand singly in some perilous 
spot when one log, the key to the jam, must be 
shifted to set free the great tumbled pile. He 
did everything with a dash. The handspike was 
waved and thrust into the best leverage, the long 
robust cry, “0-hee-hee-hoi ! ” rolled over the 
waters, there was a devil’s jumble of logs, and 
he played a desperate game with them, tossing 
here, leaping there, balancing elsewhere, till. 


At Bamber’s Boom 165 

reaching the smooth rush of logs in the current, 
he ran across them to the shore as they spun 
beneath his feet. 

His gang of river-drivers, with their big drives 
of logs, came sweeping down one beautiful day 
of early summer, red-shirted, shouting, good- 
tempered. It was about this time that Pierre 
came to know Magor. 

It was the old man’s duty to keep the booms 
of several great lumbering companies, and to 
watch the logs when the river-drivers were en- 
gaged elsewhere. Occasionally he took a place 
with the men, helping to make cribs and rafts. 
Dugard worked for one lumber company, Magor 
for others. Many in the settlement showed 
Dugard how much he was despised. Some 
warned him that Magor had said he would break 
him into pieces ; it seemed possible that Dugard 
might have a bad hour with the people of Bam- 
ber’s Boom. Dugard, though he swelled and 
strutted, showed by a furtive eye and a sin- 
ister watchfulness that he felt himself in an 
atmosphere of danger. But he spoke of his 
wickedness lightly as, “ A slip — a little accident, 
mon ami'' 

Pierre said to him one day : “ Bien, Dugard, 
you are a bold man to come here again. Or is 
it that you think old men are cowards ? ” 


1 66 An Adventurer of the North 

Dugard, blustering, laid his hand suddenly 
upon his case-knife. 

Pierre laughed softly, contemptuously, came 
over, and throwing out his perfectly formed but 
not robust chest in the fashion of Dugard, added: 
“ Ho, ho, m’sieu’ the butcher, take your time 
at that. There is too much blood in your car- 
cass. You have quarrels plenty on your hands 
without this. Come, don’t be a fool and a 
scoundrel too ! ” 

Dugard grinned uneasily, and tried to turn 
the thing off as a joke, and Pierre, who laughed 
still a little more, said: “It would be amusing 
to see old Magor and Dugard fight. It would 
be — so equal.” There was a keen edge to 
Pierre’s tones, but Dugard dared not resent it. 

One day Magor and Dugard must meet. 
The square-timber of the two companies had got 
tangled at a certain point, and gangs from both 
must set them loose. They were camped some 
distance from each other. There was rivalry 
between them, and it was hinted that if any 
trouble came from the meeting of Magor and 
Dugard the gangs would pay off old scores 
with each other. Pierre wished to prevent this. 
It seemed to him that the two men should 
stand alone in the affair. He said as much 
here and there to members of both camps, for 


At Bamber's Boom 167 

he was free of both : a tribute to his genius at 
poker. 

The girl, Nora, was apprehensive — for her 
father ; she hated the other man now. Pierre 
was courteous to her, scrupulous in word and 
look, and fond of her child. He had always 
shown a gentleness to children, which seemed 
little compatible with his character ; but for this 
young outlaw in the world he had something 
more. He even labored carefully to turn the 
girl’s father in its favor ; but as yet to little pur- 
pose. He was thoughtful of the girl too. He 
only went to the house when he knew her father 
was present, or when she was away. Once while 
he was there Father Halen and his sister, Mrs. 
Lauder, came. They found Pierre with the child, 
rocking the cradle, and humming as he did so 
an old song of the coureurs de bois : 

“Out of the hills comes a little white deer — 
Poor little vaurien, O, ciy ci! 

Come to my home, to my home down here, 
Sister and brother and child o’ me — 

Poor little, poor little vaurien! 

Pierre was alone, save for the old woman who 
had cared for the home since Nora’s trouble 
came. The priest was anxious lest any harm 
should come from Dugard’s presence at Bam- 
ber’s Boom. He knew Pierre’s doubtful repu- 


1 68 An Adventurer of the North 

tation, but still he knew he could speak freely 
and would be answered honestly. 

“What will happen ?” he abruptly asked. 

“ What neither you nor I should try to pre- 
vent, m’sieu’,” was Pierre’s reply. 

“Magor will do the man injury ?” 

“ What would you have ? Put the matter on 
your own hearthstone, eh ? . . . Pardon, if I say 
these things bluntly.” Pierre still lightly rocked 
the cradle with one foot. 

“But vengeance is in God’s hands.” 

“M’sieu’,” said the half-breed, “vengeance 
also is man’s, else why did we ten men from 
Fort Cypress track down the Indians who mur- 
dered your brother, the good priest, and kill 
them one by one ? ” 

Father Halen caught his sister as she swayed, 
and helped her to a chair, then turned a sad face 
on Pierre. “ Were you — were you one of that 
ten ? ” he asked, overcome ; and he held out his 
hand. 

The two rivers-driving camps joined at Mud 
Cat Point, where was the crush of great timber. 
The two men did not at first come face to face, 
but it was noticed by Pierre, who smoked on the 
bank while the others worked, that the old man 
watched his enemy closely. The work of undo- 
ing the great twist of logs was exciting, and 


At Bamber’s Boom 169 

they fell on each other with a great sound as they 
were pried off, and went sliding, grinding into 
the water. At one spot they were piled together, 
massive and high. These were left to the last. 

It was here that the two met. Old Magor’s 
face was quiet, if a little haggard, and his eyes 
looked out from under his shaggy brows pierc- 
ingly. Dugard’s manner was swaggering, and 
he swore horribly at his gang. Presently he 
stood at a point alone, working at an obstinate 
log. He was at the foot of an incline of timber, 
and he was not aware that Magor had suddenly 
appeared at the top of that incline. He heard 
his name called out sharply. Swinging round, 
he saw Magor thrusting a handspike under a 
huge timber hanging at the top of the incline. 
He was standing in a hollow, a kind of trench. 
He was shaken with fear, for he saw the old 
man’s design. He gave a cry and made as if to 
jump out of the way, but with a laugh Magor 
threw his whole weight on the handspike, the 
great timber slid swiftly down and crushed 
Dugard from his thighs to his feet, breaking his 
legs terribly. The old man called down at him: 

A slip— a little accident, mon ami / ” Then, 
shouldering his handspike, he made his way 
through the silent gangs to the shore, and so on 
homewards. 


170 An Adventurer of the North 

Magor had done what he wished. Dugard 
would be a cripple for life ; his beauty was all 
spoiled and broken : there was much to do to 
save his life. 

II 

Nora also about this time took to her bed 
with fever. Again and again Pierre rode thirty 
miles and back to get ice for her head. All 
were kind to her now. The vengeance up- 
on Dugard seemed to have wiped out much of 
her shame in the eyes of Bamber’s Boom. Such 
is the way of the world. He that has the last 
blow is in the eye of advantage. When Nora 
began to recover the child fell ill also. In the 
sickness of the child the old man had a great 
temptation — far greater than that concern- 
ing Dugard. As the mother grew better the 
child became much worse. One night the doc- 
tor came, driving over from another settlement, 
and said that if the child got sleep till morning 
it would probably live, for the crisis had come. 
He left an opiate to procure the sleep, the same 
that had been given to the mother. If it did 
not sleep it would die. Pierre was present at 
this time. 

All through the child’s illness the old man’s 
mind had been tossed to and fro. If the child 


At Bamber’s Boom 1 71 

died, the living stigma would be gone; there 
would be no reminder of his daughter’s shame 
in the eyes of the world. They could go away 
from Bamber’s Boom, and begin life again some- 
where. But, then, there was the child itself 
which had crept into his heart — he knew not 
how — and would not be driven out. He had 
never, till it was taken ill, even touched it, nor 
spoken to it. To destroy its life! Well, would 
it not be better for the child to go out of all 
possible shame, into peace, the peace of the grave? 

This night he sat down beside the cradle, 
holding the bottle of medicine and a spoon in 
his hand. The hot, painful face of the child 
fascinated him. He looked from it to the bot- 
tle, and back, and then again to the bottle. He 
started, and the sweat stood out on his fore- 
head. For though the doctor had told him 
in words the proper dose, he had by mistake 
written on the label the same dose as for the 
mother! Here was the responsibility shifted in 
any case. More than once the old man un- 
corked the bottle, and once he dropped out the 
opiate in the spoon steadily; but the child 
opened its suffering eyes at him, its little 
wasted hand wandered over the coverlet, and 
he could not do it just then. 

But again the passion for its destruction came 


172 An Adventurer of the North 

on him, because he heard his daughter moaning 
in the. other room. He said to himself that she 
would be happier when it was gone. But as he 
stooped over the cradle, no longer hesitating, 
the door softly opened, and Pierre entered. 
The old man shuddered, and drew back from 
the cradle. Pierre saw the look of guilt in the 
old man’s face, and his instinct told him what 
was happening. He took the bottle from the 
trembling hand, and looked at the label. 

“What is the right dose?” he asked, seeing 
that a mistake had been made by the doctor. 

In a hoarse whisper Magor told him. “ It 
may be too late,” Pierre added. He knelt 
down, with light fingers opened the child’s 
mouth, and poured the medicine in slowly. 
The old man stood for a time rigid, looking at 
them both. Then he came round to the other 
side of the cradle, and seated himself beside it, 
his eyes fixed on the child’s face. For a long 
time they sat there. At last the old man said: 
“ Will he die, Pierre?” 

“I am afraid,” answered Pierre painfully. 
“ But we shall see.” Then early teaching came 
to him — never to be entirely obliterated — and 
he added: “ Has the child been baptized?” 

The old man shook his head. “ Will you 
do it?” asked Pierre hesitatingly. 


At Bamber’s Boom 


173 


I can ’t — I can ’t,” was the reply. 

Pierre smiled a little ironically, as if to him- 
self, got some water in a cup, came over, and 
said; 

“ Remember, I ’m a Papist ! ” 

A motion of the hand answered him. 

He dipped his fingers in the water, and 
dropped it ever so lightly on the child’s fore- 
head. 

“George Magor” — it was the old man’s 
name — “ I baptize thee in the name of the 
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. 
Amen.” Then he drew the sign of the cross 
on the infant’s forehead. 

Sitting down, he watched beside the child. 
After a little he heard a long choking sigh. 
Looking up he saw tears slowly dropping from 
Magor’s eyes. 

And to this day the child and the mother of 
the child are dear to the old man’s heart. 


The Bridge House 

It stood on a wide wall between two small 
bridges. These were approaches to the big cov- 
ered bridge spanning the main channel of the 
Madawaska River and when swelled by the 
spring thaws and rains, the two flanking chan- 
nels divided at the foundations of the house, 
and rustled away through the narrow paths of 
the small bridges to the rapids. You could 
stand at any window in the House and watch 
the ugly, rushing current, gorged with logs, 
come battering at the wall, jostle between the 
piers, and race on to the rocks and the dam and 
the slide beyond. You stepped from the front 
door upon the wall, which was a road between 
the bridges, and from the back door into the 
river itself. 

The House had once been a tavern. It looked 
a wayfarer, like its patrons the river-drivers, with 
whom it was most popular. You felt that it 
had no part in the career of the village on either 
side, but was like a rock in a channel, at which 
a swimmer caught or a vagrant fish loitered. 

m 


175 


The Bridge House 

Pierre knew the place, when, of a night in 
the springtime or early summer, throngs of 
river-drivers and their bosses sauntered at its 
doors, or hung over the railing of the wall, as 
they talked and smoked. ^ 

The glory of the Bridge House suddenly de- 
clined. That was because Finley, the owner, a 
rich man, came to hate the place — his brother’s 
blood stained the bar-room floor. He would 
have destroyed the house but that John Rupert, 
the beggared gentleman, came to him, and 
wished to rent it for a dwelling. 

Mr. Rupert was old, and had been miserably 
poor for many years, but he had a breeding and 
a manner superior to anyone at Bamber’s Boom. 
He was too old for a labourer, he had no art or 
craftsmanship ; his little money was gone in 
foolish speculations, and he was dependent on 
his granddaughter’s slight earnings from music- 
teaching and needlework. But he rented an 
acre of ground from Finley, and grew vegeta- 
bles ; he gathered driftwood from the river for 
his winter fire, and made up the accounts of the 
storekeeper occasionally ; yet it was merely 
keeping off starvation. He was not popular. 
He had no tongue for the meaningless village 
talk. People held him in a kind of awe, and 
yet they felt a mean satisfaction when they saw 


176 An Adventurer of the North 

him shouldering driftwood, and piling it on the 
shore to be dragged away — the last resort of 
the poor, for which they blush. 

When Mr. Rupert asked for the House Fin- 
ley knew the chances were he would not get the 
rental; yet, because he was sorry for the old 
man, he gave it to him at a low rate. He closed 
up the bar-room, however, and it was never 
opened afterwards. 

So it was that Mr. Rupert and Judith, his 
granddaughter, came to live there. Judith was 
a blithe, lissome creature, who had never known 
comfort or riches ; they were taken from her 
grandfather before she was born, and her father 
and mother both died when she was yet a little 
child. But she had been taught by her grand- 
mother, when she lived, and by her grandfather, 
and she had felt the graces of refined life. 
Withal, she had a singular sympathy for the 
rude, strong life of the river. She was glad 
when they came to live at the Bridge House ; 
and shamed too ; glad because they could live 
apart from the other villagers ; shamed because 
it exposed her to the curiosity of those who 
visited the House, thinking it was yet a tavern. 
But that was only for a time. 

One night Jules Brydon, the young river- 
boss, camped with his men at Bamber’s Boom. 


The Bridge House 1 77 

He was of parents Scotch and French, and the 
amalgamation of races in him was a striking 
product. He was cool and indomitable, yet , 
hearty and joyous. It was exciting to watch 
him at the head of his men, breaking up a jam 
of logs, and it was a delight to hear him of an 
evening as he sang : 

“Have you heard the cry of the Long Lachine, 

When happy is the sun in the morning ? 

The rapids long and the banks of green, 

As we ride away in the morning, 

On the froth of the Long Lachine?" 

One day, soon after they came, the dams and 
booms were opened above, and forests of logs 
came riding down to Bamber’s Boom. The cur- 
rent was strong, and the logs came on swiftly. 
As Brydon’s gang worked they saw a man out 
upon a small raft of driftwood, which had been 
suddenly caught in the drive of logs, and was 
carried out towards the middle channel. The 
river-drivers laughed, for they failed to see that 
the man was old, and that he could not run 
across the rolling logs to the shore. The old 
man, evidently hopeless, laid down his pike- 
pole, folded his hands and drifted with the 
logs. The river-drivers stopped laughing. They 
began to understand. 

Brydon saw a woman standing at a window 


178 An Adventurer of the North 

of the House waving her arms, and there floated 
up the river the words, “Father! father!” He 
caught up a pike-pole and ran over that spin- 
ning floor of logs to the raft. The old man’s 
face was white, but there was no fear in his 
eyes. 

“ I cannot run the logs,” he said at once ; “I 
never did ; I am too old, and I slip. It’s no 
use. It is my granddaughter at that window. 
Tell her that I’ll think of her to the last. 
Good-bye !” 

Brydon was eyeing the logs. The old man’s 
voice was husky; he could not cry out, but he 
waved his hand to the girl. 

“Oh, save him!” came from her faintly. 

Brydon’s eyes were now on the covered 
bridge. Their raft was in the channel, coming 
straight between two piers. He measured his 
chances. He knew if he slipped, doing what he 
intended, that both might be drowned, and cer- 
tainly Mr. Rupert; for the logs were close, and 
to drop among them was a bad business. If 
they once closed over there was an end of every- 
thing. 

“ Keep quite still,” he said, “ and when I 
throw you, catch.” 

He took the slight figure in his arms, sprang 
out upon the slippery logs, and ran. A cheer 


179 


The Bridge House 

went up from the men on the shore, and the 
people who were gathering on the bridges, too 
late to be of service. Besides, the bridge was 
closed, and there was only a small opening at 
the piers. For one of these piers Brydon was 
making. He ran hard. Once he slipped and 
nearly fell, but recovered. Then a floating tree 
suddenly lunged up and struck him, so that he 
dropped upon a knee; but again he was up, and 
strained for the pier. He was within a few feet 
of it as they came to the bridge. The people 
gave a cry of fear, for they saw that there was no 
chance of both making it; because, too, at the 
critical moment a space of clear water showed 
near the pier. But Brydon raised John Rupert 
up, balanced himself, and tossed him at the 
pier, where two river-drivers stood stretching 
out their arms. An instant afterwards the old 
man was with his granddaughter. But Brydon 
slipped and fell; the roots of a tree bore him 
down, and he was gone beneath the logs ! 

There was a cry of horror from the watchers, 
then all was still. But below the bridge they 
saw an arm thrust up between the logs, and then 
another arm crowding them apart. Now a head 
and shoulders appeared. Luckily the piece of 
timber which Brydon grasped was square, and 
did not roll. In a moment he was standing on 


i8o An Adventurer of the North 

it. There was a wild shout of encouragement. 
He turned his battered, blood-stained face to 
the bridge for an instant, and, with a wave of 
the hand and a sharp look towards the rapids 
below, once more sprang out. It was a brave 
sight, for the logs were in a narrower channel 
and more riotous. He rubbed the blood out of 
his eyes that he might see his way. The rolling 
forest gave him no quarter, but he came on, 
rocking with weakness, to within a few rods of 
shore. Then a half-dozen of his men ran out 
on the logs — they were packed closely here — 
caught him up and brought him to dry ground. 

They took him to the Bridge House. He 
was hurt — more than he or they thought. The 
old man and the girl met them at the door. 
Judith gave a little cry when she saw the blood 
and Brydon’s bruised face. He lifted his head 
as though her eyes had drawn his, and, their 
looks meeting, he took his hat off. Her face 
flushed; she dropped her eyes. Her grandfather 
seized Brydon’s big hand and said some trem- 
bling words of thanks. The girl stepped inside, 
made a bed for him upon the sofa, and got him 
something to drink. She was very cool; she im- 
mediately asked Pierre to go for the young doc- 
tor who had lately come to the place, and made 
ready warm water with which she wiped Brydon’s 


The Bridge House l8i 

blood-stained face and hands, and then gave 
him some brandy. 

His comrades standing round watched her 
admiringly, she was so deft and delicate. Bry- 
don, as if to be nursed and cared for was not 
manly, felt ashamed, and came up quickly to a 
sitting posture, saying, “ Pshaw ! I’m all right !” 
But he turned sick immediately, and Judith’s 
arms caught his head and shoulders as he fell 
back. His face turned, and was pillowed on 
her bosom. At this she blushed, but a look of 
singular dignity came into her face. Those 
standing by were struck with a kind of awe; 
they were used mostly to the daughters of 
habitants and fifty-acre farmers. Her sensitive 
face spoke a wonderful language ; a divine grat- 
itude and thankfulness ; and her eyes had a clear 
moisture which did not dim them. The situa- 
tion was trying to the river-drivers — it was too 
refined ; and they breathed more freely when 
they got outside and left the girl, her grand- 
father, Pierre, and the young doctor alone with 
the injured man. 

That was how the thing began. Pierre saw 
the conclusion of events from the start. The 
young doctor did not. From the hour when he 
bound up Brydon’s head, Judith’s fingers aid- 
ing him, he felt a spring in his blood new to him. 


1 82 An Adventurer of the North 

When he came to know exactly what it meant, 
and acted, it was too late. He was much sur- 
prised that his advances were gently repulsed. 
He pressed them hard; that was a mistake. He 
had an idea, not uncommon in such cases, that 
he was conferring an honour. But he was very 
young. A gold medal in anatomy is likely to 
turn a lad’s head at the start. He falls into the 
error that the ability to demonstrate the medulla 
oblongata should likewise suffice to convince the 
heart of a maid. Pierre enjoyed the situation; 
he knew life all round ; he had boxed the com- 
pass of experience. He believed in Judith. 
The old man interested him ; he was a wreck 
out of an unfamiliar life. 

“ Well, you see,” Pierre said to Brydon one 
day, as they sat on the high cross-beams of the 
little bridge, “ you can’t kill it in a man — what 
he was born. Look, as he piles up the driftwood 
over there. Broken down, eh ? Yes, but then 
there is something — a manner, an eye. He 
piles the wood like champagne bottles. On the 
raft, you remember, he took off his hat to death. 
That’s different altogether from us ! ” 

He gave a sidelong glance at Brydon, and 
saw a troubled look. 

“Yes,” Brydon said, “he is different : and so 
is she.” 


The Bridge House 183 

“ She is a lady,” Pierre said, with slow em- 
phasis. “ She couldn’t hide it if she tried. She 
plays the piano, and looks all silk in calico. 
Made for this” — he waved his hand towards the 
Bridge House. “No, no ! made for — ” 

He paused, smiled enigmatically, and drop- 
ped a bit of wood on the swift current. 

Brydon frowned, then said : “ Well, made for 
what, Pierre?” 

Pierre looked over Brydon’s shoulder, to- 
wards a pretty cottage on the hillside. “ Made 
for homes like that, not this,” he said, and he 
nodded first towards the hillside, then to the 
Bridge House. (The cottage belonged to the 
young doctor.) A growl like an animal’s came 
from Brydon, and he clinched the other’s shoul- 
der. Pierre glanced at the hand, then at Bry- 
don’s face, and said sharply : “Take it away.” 

The hand dropped, but Brydon’s face was 
hot, and his eyes were hard. 

Pierre continued : “ But then women are 
strange. What you expect they will not — no. 
Riches ? — it is nothing ; houses like that on the 
hill, nothing. They have whims. The hut is as 
good as the house, with the kitchen in the open 
where the river welts and washes, and a man — 
the great man of the world to them — to play 
the little game of life with. . . . Pshaw ! you 


184 An Adventurer of the North 

are idle — move; you are thick in the head — 
think hard ; you like the girl — speak !” 

As he said this, there showed beneath them 
the front timbers of a small crib of logs with a 
crew of two men, making for the rapids and the 
slide below. Here was an adventure, for run- 
ning the rapids with so slight a craft and small 
a crew was smart work. Pierre, measuring the 
distance, and with a “ Look out below ! ” swiftly 
let himself down by his arms as far as he could, 
and then dropped to the timbers as lightly as if 
it were a matter of two feet instead of twelve. 
He waved a hand to Brydon, and the crib shot 
on. Brydon sat eyeing it abstractedly till it ran 
into the teeth of the rapids, the long oars of the 
three men rising and falling to the monotonous 
cry. The sun set out the men and the craft 
against the tall dark walls of the river in strong 
relief, and Brydon was carried away from what 
Pierre had been saying. He had a solid plea- 
sure in watching, and he sat up with a call of 
delight when he saw the crib drive at the slide. 
Just glancing the edge, she shot through safely. 
His face blazed. 

“ A pretty sight,” said a voice behind him. 

Without a word he swung round, and drop- 
ped, more heavily than Pierre, beside Judith. 


The Bridge House 185 

“ It gets into our bones,” he said. “ Of 
course, though, it ain’t the same to you,” he 
added, looking down at her over his shoulder. 
“ You do n’t care for things so rough, mebbe ?” 

“ I love the river,” she said quietly. 

“We’re a rowdy lot, we river-drivers. We 
have to be. It ’s a rowdy business.” 

“ I never noticed that,” she replied, gravely 
smiling. “ When I was small I used to go to 
the river-drivers’ camps with my brother, and 
they were always kind to us. They used to sing 
and play the fiddle, and joke ; but I did n’t think 
that they were rowdy, and I don’t now. They 
were never rough with us.” 

“No one’d ever be rough with you,” was the 
reply. 

“ Oh yes,” she said suddenly, and turned her 
head away. She was thinking of what the 
young doctor had said to her that morning ; 
how like a foolish boy he had acted : upbraiding 
her, questioning her, saying unreasonable things, 
as young egotists always do. In years she was 
younger than he, but in wisdom much older ; in 
all things more wise and just. He had not 
struck her, but with his reckless tongue he had 
cut her to the heart. 

“ Oh yes,” she repeated, and her eyes ran up 


1 86 An Adventurer of the North 

to his face and over his great stalwart body ; 
and then she leaned over the railing and looked 
into the water. 

“ I ’d break the man in two that was rough 
with you,” he said between his teeth. 

“Would you?” she asked in a whisper. 
Then, not giving him a chance to reply, “ We 
are very poor, you know, and some people are 
rough with the poor — and proud. I remember,” 
she went on, simply, dreamily, and as if talking 
to herself, “ the day when we first came to the 
Bridge House. I sat down on a box and looked 
at the furniture — it was so little — and cried. 
Coming here seemed the last of what grand- 
father used to be. I could n’t help it. He sat 
down too, and didn’t say anything. He was 
very pale, and I saw that his eyes ached as he 
looked at me. Then I got angry with myself, 
and sprang up and went to work — and we get 
along pretty well.” 

She paused and sighed ; then, after a minute: 
“ I love the river ; I do n’t believe I could be 
happy away from it. I should like to live on it, 
and die on it, and be buried in it.” 

His eyes were on her eagerly. But she looked 
so frail and dainty, that his voice, to himself, 
sounded rude. Still, his hand blundered along 
the railing to hers, and covered it tenderly — 


The Bridge House 187 

for so big a hand. She drew her fingers away, 
but not very quickly. “ Do n’t,” she said, “and 
— and some one is coming ! ” 

There were footsteps behind them. It was 
her grandfather, carrying a board fished from 
the river. He grasped the situation, and stood 
speechless with wonder. He had never thought 
of this. He was a gentleman, in spite of all, and 
this man was a common river-boss. Presently he 
drew himself up with an air. The heavy board 
was still in his arms. Brydon came over and 
took the board, looking him squarely in the eyes. 

“ Mr. Rupert,” he said, “I want to ask some- 
thing.” 

The old man nodded. 

“I helped you out of a bad scrape on the 
river ? ” 

Again the old man nodded. 

“Well, mebbe, I saved your life. For that 
I ’m going to ask you to draw no more drift- 
wood from the Madawaska — not a stick, now or 
ever.” 

“ It is the only way we can keep from freez- 
ing in winter.” Mr. Rupert scarcely knew what 
he said. 

Brydon looked at Judith, who turned away, 
then answered : “/’// keep you from freezing, 
if you ’ll let me, you — and Judith.” 


1 88 An Adventurer of the North 

“ Oh, please let us go into the house,” Judith 
said hastily. 

She saw the young doctor driving towards 
them out of the covered bridge ! 

When Brydon went to join his men far down 
the river he left a wife behind him at the Bridge 
House, where she and her grandfather were to 
stay until the next summer. Then there would 
be a journey from Bamber’s Boom to a new home. 

In the late autumn he came, before he went 
away to the shanties in the backwoods, and again 
in the winter just before the baby was born. 
Then he went far up the river to Rice Lake and 
beyond, to bring down the drives of logs for his 
Company. June came, and then there was a 
sudden sorrow at the Bridge House. How 
great it was, Pierre’s words as he stood at the 
door one evening will testify. He said to the 
young doctor : “ Save the child, and you shall 
have back the I.O.U. on your house:” which 
was also evidence that the young doctor had 
fallen into the habit of gambling. 

The young doctor looked hard at him. He 
had a selfish nature. “ You can only do what 
you can do,” he said. 

Pierre’s eyes were sinister. “If you do not 
save it, one would guess why.” 

The other started, flushed, was silent, and 


The Bridge House 189 

then said : “ You think I ’m a coward. We 
shall see. There is a way, but it may fail.” 

And though he sucked the diphtheria poison 
from the child’s throat, it died the next night. 

Still, the cottage that Pierre and Company 
had won was handed back with such good ad- 
vice as only a world-wise adventurer can give. 

Of the child’s death its father did not know. 
They were not certain where he was. But when 
the mother took to her bed again, the young 
doctor said it was best that Brydon should come. 
Pierre had time and inclination to go for him. 
But before he went he was taken to Judith’s bed- 
side. Pierre had seen life and death in many 
forms, but never anything quite like this : a 
delicate creature floating away upon a summer 
current : travelling in those valleys which are 
neither of this life nor of that ; but where you 
hear the echoes of both, and are visited by solic- 
itous spirits. There was no pain in her face — 
she heard a little, familiar voice from high and 
pleasant hills, and she knew, so wise are the 
dying, that her husband was travelling after her, 
and that they would all be together soon. But 
she did not speak of that. For the knowledge 
born of such a time is locked up in the soul. 

Pierre was awe-stricken. Unconsciously he 
crossed himself. 


190 An Adventurer of the North 

“ Tell him to come quickly,” she said, “ if 
you find him ” — her fingers played with the cov- 
erlet — “ for I wish to comfort him. . . . Some- 
one said that you were bad, Pierre. I do not 
believe it. You were sorry when my baby went 
away. I am — going away — too. But do not 
tell him that. Tell him I cannot walk about. 
I want him to carry me — to carry me. Will 
you?” 

Pierre put out his hand to hers creeping 
along the coverlet to him ; but it was only in- 
stinct that guided him, for he could not see. 
He started on his journey with his hat pulled 
down over his eyes. 

One evening when the river was very high 
and it was said that Brydon’s drives of logs 
would soon be down, a strange thing happened 
at the Bridge House. 

The young doctor had gone, whispering to 
Mr. Rupert that he would come back later. He 
went out on tiptoe, as from the presence of an 
angel. His selfishness had dropped away from 
him. The evening wore on, and in the little 
back room a woman’s voice said : 

“ Is it morning yet, father ?” 

“ It is still day. The sun has not set, my 
child.” 

“ I thought it had gone, it seemed so dark.” 


The Bridge House 191 

“You have been asleep, Judith. You have 
come out of the dark.” 

“ No, I have come out into the darkness — 
into the world.” 

“ You will see better when you are quite 
awake.” 

“ I wish I could see the river, father. Will 
you go and look ? ” 

Then there was a silence. “ Well ? ” she 
asked. 

“It is beautiful,” he said, “and the sun is 
still bright.” 

“You see as far as Indian Island ?” 

“ I can see the white comb of the reef beyond 
it, my dear.” 

“And no one — is coming?” 

“There are men making for the shore, and the 
fires are burning, but no one is coming this 
way. . . . He would come by the road, 

perhaps.” 

“Oh no, by the river. Pierre has not found 
him. Can you see the Eddy ?” 

“Yes. It is all quiet there; nothing but the 
logs tossing round it.” 

“We used to sit there — he and I — by the big 
cedar tree. Everything was so cool and sweet. 
There was only the sound of the force-pump and 
the swallowing of the Eddy. They say that a 


192 An Adventurer of the North 

woman was drowned there, and that you can see 
her face in the water, if you happen there at 
sunrise, weeping and smiling also : a picture in 
the water. . . . Do you think it true, father?” 

‘‘Life is so strange, and who knows what is 
not life, my child ?” 

“When baby was dying I held it over the 
water beneath that window, where the sunshine 
falls in the evening ; and it looked down once 
before its spirit passed like a breath over my 
face. Maybe, its look will stay, for him to see 
when he comes. It was just below where you 
stand. . . . Father, can you see its face?” 

“No, Judith; nothing but the water and the 
sunshine !” 

“Dear, carry me to the window.” 

When this was done she suddenly leaned 
forward with shining eyes and anxious fingers. 
“My baby ! My baby !” she said. 

She looked up the river, but her eyes were 
fading, she could not see far. “It is all a grey 
light,” she said, “ I cannot see well.” Yet she 
smiled. “Lay me down again, father,” she 
whispered. 

After a little she sank into a slumber. All at 
once she started up. “The river, the beautiful 
river ! ” she cried out gently. Then, at the last, 
“Oh, my dear, my dear!” 


The Bridge House 193 

And so she came out of the valley into the 
high hills. 

Later he was left alone with his dead. The 
young doctor and others had come and gone. 
He would watch till morning. He sat long be- 
side her, numb to the world. At last he started, 
for he heard a low, clear call behind the House. 
He went out quickly to the little platform, and 
saw through the dusk a man drawing himself up. 
It was Brydon. He caught the old man’s 
shoulders convulsively. “How is she?” he 
a-sked. 

“Come in, my son,” was the low reply. The 
old man saw a grief greater than his own. He 
led the husband to the room where the wife lay 
beautiful and still. 

“She is better, as you see,” he said bravely. 

The hours went, and the two sat near the 
body, one on either side. They knew not what 
was going on in the world. 

As they mourned, Pierre and the young doctor 
sat silent in that cottage on the hillside. They 
were roused at last. There came up to Pierre’s 
keen ears the sound of the river. 

“Let us go out,” he said ; “the river is flood- 
ing. You can hear the logs.” 

They came out and watched. The river went 
swishing, swilling past, and the dull boom of the 


194 


An Adventurer of the North 


logs as they struck the piers of the bridge or 
some building on the shore came rolling to 
them. 

“The dams and booms have burst!” Pierre 
said. 

He pointed to the camps far up the river. 
By the light of the camp-fires there appeared a 
wide weltering flood of logs and debris. Pierre’s 
eyes shifted to the Bridge House. In one room 
was a light. He stepped out and down, and 
the other followed. They had almost reached 
the shore, when Pierre cried out sharply: 
“What’s that ?” 

He pointed to an indistinct mass bearing 
down upon the Bridge House. It was a big 
shed that had been carried away, and, jammed 
between timbers, had not broken up. There 
was no time for warning. It came on swiftly, 
heavily. There was a strange, horrible, grinding 
sound, and then they saw the light of that one 
room move on, waving a little to and fro — on the 
the rapids, the cohorts of logs crowding hard 
after. 

Where the light was two men had started to 
their feet when the crash came. They felt the 
House move. 

“Run — save yourself!” cried the old man 
quietly. “We are lost!” 


195 


The Bridge House 

The floor rocked. 

“Go,” he said again. “I will stay with her.” 

“She is mine,” Brydon said; and he took her 
in his arms. “I will not go.” 

They could hear the rapids below. The old 
man steadied himself in the deep water on the 
floor, and caught out yearningly at the cold 
hands. 

“Come close, come close,” said Brydon. 
“Closer; put your arms round her.” 

Mr. Rupert did so. They were locked in 
each other’s arms — dead and living. 

The old man spoke, with a piteous kind of 
joy: 

therefore commit her body to the deep — .'” 

The three were never found. 


The Epaulettes 

Old Athabasca, chief of the Little Crees, sat 
at the door of his lodge, staring down into the 
valley where Fort Pentecost lay, and Mitawawa 
his daughter sat near him, fretfully pulling at 
the fringe of her fine buckskin jacket. She 
had reason to be troubled. Fyles the trader 
had put a great indignity upon Athabasca. A 
factor of twenty years before, in recognition of 
the chief’s merits and in reward of his services, 
had presented him with a pair of epaulettes, 
left in the fort by some officer in Her Majesty’s 
service. A good, solid, honest pair of epau- 
lettes, well fitted to stand the wear and tear of 
those high feasts and functions at which the 
chief paraded them upon his broad shoulders. 
They were the admiration of his own tribe, 
the wonder of others, and the envy of many 
chiefs. It was said that Athabasca wore them 
creditably, and was no more immobile and 
grand-mannered than became a chief thus 
honored above his kind. 

196 


197 


The Epaulettes 

But the years went, and there came a man 
to Fort Pentecost that knew not Athabasca. 
He was young, and tall and strong, had a hot 
temper, knew naught of human nature, was 
possessed by a pride more masterful than his 
wisdom, and a courage stronger than his tact. 
He was ever for high-handedness, brooked no 
interference, and treated the Indians more as 
Company’s serfs than as Company’s friends and 
allies. Also, he had an eye for Mitawawa, and 
found favor in return, though to what depth it 
took a long time to show. The girl sat high in 
the minds and desires of the young braves, for 
she had beauty of a heathen kind, a deft and 
dainty finger for embroidered buckskin, a par- 
ticular fortune with a bow and arrow, and the 
fleetest foot. 

There were mutterings now because Fyles 
the white man came to sit often in Athabasca’s 
lodge. He knew of this, but heeded not at 
all. At last Konto, a young brave, who very 
accurately guessed at Fyles’ intentions, stopped 
him one day on the Grey Horse Trail, and in a 
soft, indolent voice begged him to prove his 
regard, in a fight without weapons, to the death, 
the survivor to give the other burial where he 
fell. Fyles was neither fool nor coward. It 
would have been foolish to run the risk of leav- 


igS An Adventurer of the North 

ing Fort and people masterless for an Indian’s 
whim; it would have been cowardly to do noth- 
ing. So he whipped out a revolver, and bade 
his rival march before him to the Fort, which 
Konto very calmly did, begging the favor of a 
bit of tobacco as he went. 

. Fyles demanded of Athabasca that he should 
sit in judgment and should at least banish 
Konto from his tribe, hinting the while that he 
might have to put a bullet into Konto’s refrac- 
tory head if the thing were not done. He said 
large things in the name of the H. B. C., and 
was surprised that Athabasca let them pass un- 
moved. But that chief, after long considera- 
tion, during which he drank Company’s coffee 
and ate Company’s pemmican, declared that he 
could do nothing, for Konto had made a fine 
offer, and a grand chance of a great fight had 
been missed. 

This was in the presence of several petty 
officers and Indians and woodsmen at the Fort. 
Fyles had vanity and a nasty temper. He 
swore a little, and with words of bluster went 
over and ripped the epaulettes from the chief’s 
shoulders, as a punishment, a mark of degrada- 
tion. The chief said nothing. He got up, and 
reached out his hands as if to ask them back; 
and when Fyles refused, he went away, drawing 


199 


The Epaulettes 

his blanket high over his shoulders. It was 
wont before to lie loosely about him, to show 
his badges of captaincy and alliance. 

This was about the time that the Indians 
were making ready for the buffalo, and when 
their chief took to his lodge and refused to 
leave it they came to ask him why. And they 
were told. They were for making trouble, but 
the old chief said the quarrel was his own: he 
would settle it in his own way. He would not 
go to the hunt. Konto, he said, should take 
his place; and when his braves came back there 
should be great feasting, for then the matter 
would be ended. 

Half the course of the moon and more, and 
Athabasca came out of his lodge — the first time 
in the sunlight since the day of his disgrace. 
He and his daughter sat silent and watchful at 
the door. There had been no word between 
Fyles and Athabasca, no word between Mita- 
wawa and Fyles. The fort was well-nigh ten- 
antless, for the half-breeds also had gone after 
buffalo, and only the trader, a clerk, and a half- 
breed cook were left. 

Mitawawa gave a little cry of impatience: 
she had held her peace so long that even her 
slow Indian nature could endure no more. 
‘‘What will my father Athabasca do?” she 


200 An Adventurer of the North 

asked. “With idleness the flesh grows soft, and 
the iron melts from the arm.'' 

“ But when the thoughts are stone, the body 
is that of the Mighty Men of the Kimash Hills. 
When the bow is long drawn, beware the ar- 
row.” 

“It is no answer,” she said; “what will my 
father do?” 

“They were of gold,” he answered, “that 
never grew rusty. My people were full of won- 
der when they stood before me, and the tribes 
had envy as they passed. It is a hundred 
moons and one red mid-summer moon since the 
Great Company put them on my shoulders. 
They were light to carry, but it was as if I bore 
an army. No other chief was like me. That is 
all over. When the tribes pass they will laugn, 
and my people will scorn me if I do not come 
out to meet them with the yokes of gold.” 

“But what will my father do ?” she persisted. 

“I have had many thoughts, and at night I 
have called on the Spirits who rule. From the 
top of the Hill of Graves I have beaten the soft 
drum, and called, and sung the hymn which 
wakes the sleeping Spirits: and I know the 
way.” 

^ “What is the way?” Her eyes filled with a 
kind of fear or trouble, and many times they 


201 


The Epaulettes 

shifted from the Fort to her father, and back 
again. The chief was silent. Then anger leapt 
into her face. 

“Why does my father fear to speak to his 
child ?” she said. “I will speak plain. I love 
the man ; but I love my father also.” 

She stood up, and drew her blanket about 
her, one hand clasped proudly on her breast. “I 
cannot remember my mother ; but I remember 
when I first looked down from my hammock in 
the pine tree, and saw my father sitting by the 
fire. It was in the evening like this, but darker, 
for the pines made great shadows. I cried out, 
and he came and took me down, and laid me 
between his knees, and fed me with bits of meat 
from the pot. He talked much to me, and his 
voice was finer than any other. There is no 
one like my father — Konto is nothing; but the 
voice of the white man, Fyles, had golden 
words that our braves do not know, and I lis- 
tened. Konto did a brave thing. Fyles, be- 
cause he was a great man of the Company, 
would not fight, and drove him like a dog. 
Then he made my father as a worm in the eyes 
of the world. I would give my life for Fyles 
the trader, but I would give more than my life 
to wipe out my father’s shame, and to ^how that 
Konto of the Little Crees is no dog. I have 


202 An Adventurer of the North 

been carried by the hands of the old men of my 
people, I have ridden the horses of the young 
men; their shame is my shame.” 

The eyes of the chief had never lifted from 
the Fort ; nor from his look could you have 
told that he heard his daughter’s words. For a 
moment he was silent, then a deep fire came 
into his eyes, and his wide heavy brows drew up 
so that the frown of anger was gone. At last, 
as she waited, he arose, put out a hand and 
touched her forehead. 

“Mitawawa has spoken well,” he said. 
“ There will be an end. The yokes of gold are 
mine ; an honour given cannot be taken away. 
He has stolen; he is a thief. He would not 
fight Konto ; but I am a chief and he shall fight 
me. I am as great as many men — I have car- 
ried the golden yokes ; we will fight for them. 
I thought long, for I was afraid my daughter 
loved the man more than her people ; but now I 
will break him in pieces. Has Mitawawa seen 
him since the shameful day?” 

“He has come to the lodge, but I would not 
let him in unless he brought the epaulettes. He 
said he would bring them when Konto was pun- 
ished. I begged of him as I never begged of 
my own father, but he was hard as the ironwood 


203 


The Epaulettes 

tree. I sent him away. Yet there is no tongue 
like his in the world ; he is tall and beautiful, 
and has the face of a spirit.” 

From the Fort Fyles watched the two. With 
a pair of field-glasses he could follow their ac- 
tions, could almost read their faces. “There’ll 
be a lot of sulking about those epaulettes, Mal- 
lory,” he' said at last, turning to his clerk. “Old 
Athabasca has a bee in his bonnet.” 

“ Wouldn ’t it be just as well to give ’em back, 
sir?” Mallory had been at Fort Pentecost a 
long time, and he understood Athabasca and his 
Indians. He was a solid, slow- thinking old fel- 
low, but he had that wisdom of the north which 
can turn from dove to serpent and from serpent 
to lion in the moment. 

“Give ’em back, Mallory ? I’ll see him in 
Jericho first,^unless he goes on his marrow-bones 
and kicks Konto out of the camp.” 

“Very well, sir. But I think we’d better 
keep an eye open.” 

“ Eye open, be hanged ! If he ’d been going 
to riot he ’d have done so before this. Besides, 
the girl — ! ” 

Mallory looked long and earnestly at his 
master, whose forehead was glued to the field- 
glass. His little eyes moved as if in debate, his 


204 An Adventurer of the North 

slow jaws opened once or twice. At last he 
said : “I’d give the girl the go-by, Mr. Fyles, if 
I was you, unless I meant to marry her.” 

Fyles suddenly swung round. “Keep your 
place, blast you, Mallory, and keep your morals 
too. One’d think you were a missionary.” 
Then with a sudden burst of anger : “ Damn it 
all, if my men don’t stand by me against a pack 
of treacherous Indians, I’d better get out.” 

“Your men will stand by you, sir; no fear. 
I’ve served three traders here, and my record is 
pretty clean, Mr. Fyles. But I ’ll say it to your 
face, whether you like it or not, that you’re not 
as good a judge of the In jin as me, or even Due 
the cook ; and that’s straight as I can say it, Mr. 
Fyles.” 

Fyles paced up and down in anger — not 
speaking ; but presently threw up the glass and 
looked towards Athabasca’s lodge. “They’re 
gone,” he said presently; “I’ll go and see them 
to-morrow. The old fool must do what I want 
or there’ll be ructions.” 

The moon was high over Fort Pentecost 
when Athabasca entered the silent yard. The 
dogs growled, but Indian dogs growl without 
reason, and no one heeds them. The old chief 
stood a moment looking at the windows, upon 
which slush-lights were throwing heavy shadows. 


205 


The Epaulettes 

He went to Fyles’ window ; no one was in the 
room. He went to another; Mallory and Due 
were sitting at a table. Mallory had the epau- 
lettes, looking at them, and fingering the hooks 
by which Athabasca had fastened them on. Due 
was laughing ; he reached over for an epaulette, 
tossed it up, caught it and threw it down with a 
guffaw. Then the door opened, and Athabasca 
walked in, seized the epaulettes, and went swift- 
ly out again. Just outside the door Mallory 
clapped a hand on one shoulder, and Due 
caught at the epaulettes. 

Athabasca struggled wildly. All at once 
there was a cold white flash, and Due came 
huddling to Mallory’s feet. For a brief instant 
Mallory and the Indian fell apart, then Atha- 
basca with a contemptuous fairness tossed his 
knife away, and ran in on his man. They 
closed; strained, swayed, became a tangled 
wrenching mass; and then Mallory was lifted 
high into the air, and came down with a broken 
back. 

Athabasca picked up the epaulettes, and hur- 
ried away, breathing hard, and hugging them to 
his bare, red-stained breast. He had nearly 
reached the gate when he heard a cry. He did 
not turn, but a heavy stone caught him high in 
the shoulders, and he fell on his face and lay 


2o6 An Adventurer of the North 

clutching the epaulettes in his outstretched 
hands. 

Fyles’ own hands were yet lifted with the 
effort of throwing when be heard the soft rush 
of footsteps and someone came swiftly into his 
embrace. A pair of arms ran round his shoul- 
ders — lips closed with his — something ice-cold 
and hard touched his neck — he saw a bright 
flash at his throat. 

In the morning Konto found Mitawawa sit- 
ting with wild eyes by her father’s body. She 
had fastened the epaulettes on its shoulders. 
Fyles and his men made a grim triangle of death 
at the door of the Fort. 


The Finding of Fingall 

Fin gall ! Fingall I Oh^ Fingall F' 

A grey mist was rising from the river, the 
sun was drinking it delightedly, the swift blue 
water showed underneath it, and the top of 
Whitefaced Mountain peaked the mist by a 
hand-length. The river brushed the banks like 
rustling silk, and the only other sound, very 
sharp and clear in the liquid monotone, was the 
crack of a woodpecker’s beak on a hickory tree. 

It was a sweet, fresh autumn morning in 
Lonesome Valley. Before night the deer would 
bellow reply to the hunters’ rifles, and the moun- 
tain-goat call to its unknown gods ; but now 
there was only the wild duck skimming the river, 
and the high hill-top rising and fading into the 
mist, the ardent sun, and again that strange cry: 

Fingall! Oh, Fingall! Fingall!"' 

Two men, lounging at a fire on a ledge of 
the hills, raised their eyes to the mountain-side 
beyond and above them, and one said presently : 

“The second time. It’s a woman’s voice, 
Pierre.” 


207 


2o 8 An Adventurer of the North 

Pierre nodded, and abstractedly stirred the 
coals about with a twig. 

“ Well, it is a pity — the poor Cynthie,” he 
said at last. 

“ It is a woman, then. You know her, Pierre 
— her story?” 

Fingallf Fingall! Ohj Fingalll” 

Pierre raised his head towards the sound \ 
then after a moment, said : 

‘‘ I know Fingall.” 

“And the woman ? Tell me.” 

“ And the girl. Fingall was all fire and 
heart, and devil-may-care. She — she was not 
beautiful except in the eye, but that was like a 
flame of red and blue. Her hair, too — then — 
would trip her up, if it hung loose. That was 
all, except that she loved him too much. But 
women — et puis^ when a woman gets a man be- 
tween her and the heaven above and the earth 
beneath, and there comes the great hunger, 
what is the good ? A man cannot understand, 
but he can see and he can fear. What is the 
good ! To play with life, that is not much ; but 
to play with soul is more than a thousand lives. 
Look at Cynthie.” 

He paused, and Lawless waited patiently. 
Presently Pierre continued: 

“ Fingall vtSi^gentil ; he would take off his hat 


209 


The Finding of Fingall 

to a squaw. It made no difference what others 
did, he didn’t think — it was like breathing to 
him. How can you tell the way things happen? 
Cynthie’s father kept the tavern at St. Gabriel’s 
Fork, over against the great sawmill. Fingall 
was foreman of a gang in the lumber-yard. 
Cynthie had a brother — Fenn. Fenn was as bad 
as they make, but she loved him, and Fingall 
knew it well, though he hated the young skunk. 
The girl’s eyes were like two little fireflies when 
Fingall was about. 

He was a gentleman, though he had only 
half a name — Fingall — like that. I think he did 
not expect to stay; he seemed to be waiting for 
something — always when the mail come in he 
would be there; and afterwards you wouldn’t 
see him for a time. So it seemed to me that he 
made up his mind to think nothing of Cynthie, 
and to say nothing.” 

Fin gall I Fingall ! Oh, Fingall!''^ 

The strange, sweet, singing voice sounded 
nearer. 

“She’s coming this way, Pierre,” said Law- 
less. 

“I hope not to see her. What is the good?” 

“Well, let us have the rest of the story.” 

“Her brother Fenn was in Fingall’s gang. 
One day there was trouble. Fenn called Fin- 


210 An Adventurer of the North 

gall a liar. The gang stopped piling; the usual 
thing did not come. Fingall told him to leave 
the yard, and they would settle some other time. 
That night a wicked thing happened. We were 
sitting in the bar-room when we heard two shots 
and then a fall. We ran into the other room ; 
there was Fenn on the floor, dying. He lifted 
himself on his elbow, pointed at Fingall — and 
fell back. The father of the boy stood white 
and still a few feet away. There was no pistol 
showing — none at all. 

‘‘The men closed in on Fingall. He did not 
stir — he seemed to be thinking of something 
else. He had a puzzled, sorrowful look. The 
men roared round him, but he waved them back 
for a moment, and looked first at the father, 
then at the son. I could not understand at first. 
Someone pulled a pistol out of Fingall’s pocket 
and showed it. At that moment Cynthie came 
in. She gave a cry. By the holy ! I do not 
want to hear a cry like that often ! She fell on 
her knees beside the boy, and caught his head to 
her breast. Then with a wild look she asked 
who did it. They had just taken Fingall out 
into the bar-room. They did not tell her his 
name, for they knew that she loved him. 

“‘Father,’ she said all at once, ‘have you 
killed the man that killed Fenn ?’ 


The Finding of Fingall 21 1 

‘‘The old man shook his head. There was a 
sick color in his face. 

‘“ Then I will kill him,’ she said. 

“ She laid her brother’s head down, and stood 
up. Someone put in her hand the pistol, and 
told her it was the same that had killed Fenn. She 
took it, and came with us. The old man stood 
still where he was ; he was like stone. I looked 
at him for a minute and thought ; then I turned 
round and went to the bar-room ; and he fol- 
lowed. Just as I got inside the door, I saw the 
girl start back, and her hand drop, for she saw 
that it was Fingall ; he was looking at her very- 
strange. It was the rule to empty the gun into 
a man who had been sentenced ; and already 
Fingall had heard his ‘God-have-mercy!’ The 
girl was to do it. 

“Fingall said to her in a muffled voice, ‘Fire 
— Cynthie 1’ 

“I guessed what she would do. In a kind 
of a dream she raised the pistol up — up — up, till 
I could see it was just out of range of his head, 
and she fired. One ! two ! three I four ! five ! 
Fingall never moved a muscle; but the bullets 
spotted the wall at the side of his head. She 
stopped after the five ; but the arm was still held 
out, and her finger was on the trigger; she 
seemed to be all dazed. Only six chambers 


212 An Adventurer of the North 

were in the gun, and of course one chamber was 
empty. Fenn had its bullet in his lungs, as we 
thought. So someone beside Cynthie touched 
her arm, pushing it down. But there was an- 
other shot, and this time, because of the push, 
the bullet lodged in Fingall’s skull.” 

Pierre paused now, and waved with his hand 
toward the mist which hung high up like a can- 
opy between the hills. 

“But,” said Lawless, not heeding the scene, 
“what about that sixth bullet ? ” 

“ Holy, it is plain ! Fingall did not fire the 
shot. His revolver was full, every chamber, when 
Cynthie first took it. 

“ Who killed the lad ? ” 

“ Can you not guess ? There had been 
words between the father and the boy : both 
had fierce blood. The father, in a mad minute, 
fired ; the boy wanted revenge on Fingall, and, 
to save his father, laid it on . the other. The 
old man ? Well, I do not know whether he was 
a coward, or stupid, or ashamed — he let Fingall 
take it.” 

“ Fingall took it to spare the girl, eh ? ” 

“For the girl. It wasn’t good for her to 
know her father killed his own son.” 

“ What came after ? ” 

“The worst. That night the girl’s father 


The Finding of Fingall 213 

killed himself, and the two were buried in the 
same grave. Cynthie — ” 

Fingall ! Fingall ! — Oh^ Fingall T" 

“You hear? Yes, like that all the time as 
she sat on the floor, her hair about her like a 
cloud, and the dead bodies in the next room. 
She thought she had killed Fingall, and she 
knew now that he was innocent. The two were 
buried. Then we told her that Fingall was not 
dead. She used to come and sit outside the 
door, and listen to his breathing, and ask if he 
ever spoke of her. What was the good of lying? 
If we said he did, she’d have come in to him, 
and that would do no good, for he wasn’t right 
in his mind. By and by we told her he was 
getting well, and then she did n’t come, but 
stayed at home, just saying his name over to 
herself. Alors, things take hold of a woman — 
it is strange ! When Fingall was strong enough 
to go out, I went with him the first time. He 
was all thin and handsome as you can think, but 
he had no memory, and his eyes were like a 
child’s. She saw him, and came out to meet 
him. What does a woman care for the world 
when she loves altogether ? Well, he just looked 
at her as if he ’d never seen her before, and 
passed by without a sign, though afterwards a 
trouble came in his face. Three days later he 


214 An Adventurer of the North 

was gone, no one knew where. That is two years 
ago. Ever since she has been looking for him.” 

“ Is she mad ? ” 

“ Mad ? Holy Mother ! It is not good to 
have one thing in the head all the time ! What 
do you think ? So much all at once ! And 
then — ” 

“ Hush ! Pierre ! There she is !” said Law- 
less, pointing to a ledge of rock not far away. 

The girl stood looking out across the valley, 
a weird, rapt look in her face, her hair falling 
loose, a staff like a shepherd’s crook in one 
hand, the other hand over her eyes as she slowly 
looked from point to point of the horizon. 

The two watched her without speaking. 
Presently she saw them. She gazed at them for 
a minute, then descended to them. Lawless 
and Pierre rose, doffing their hats. She looked 
at both a moment, and her eyes settled on Pierre. 
Presently she held out her hand to him. 

“I knew you — yesterday,” she said. 

Pierre returned the intensity of her gaze with 
one kind and strong. 

“So-so, Cynthie,” he said; “sit down and 
eat.” 

He dropped on a knee and drew a scone and 
some fish from the ashes. She sat facing them, 
and, taking from a bag at her side some wild 


The Finding of Fingall 215 

fruits, ate slowly, saying nothing. Lawless no- 
ticed that her hair had become gray at her tem- 
ples, though she was but one-and-twenty years 
old. Her face, brown as it was, shone with a 
white kind of light, which may, or may not, 
have come from the crucible of her eyes, where 
the tragedy of her life was fusing. Lawless 
could not bear to look long, for the fire that 
consumes a body and sets free a soul is not for 
the sight of the quick. At last she rose, her 
body steady, but her hands having that tremu- 
lous activity of her eyes. 

“Will you not stay, Cynthie ?” asked Law- 
less very kindly. 

She came close to him, and, after searching 
his eyes, said with a smile that almost hurt him, 
“ When I have found him, I will bring him to 
your camp-fire. Last night the Voice said to 
me that he waits for me where the mist rises 
from the river at daybreak, close to the home 
of the White Swan. Do you know where is the 
home of the White Swan ? Before the frost 
comes and the red wolf cries, I must find him. 
Winter is the time of sleep ; I will give him 
honey and dried meat. I know where we shall 
live together. You never saw such roses ! 
Hush ! I have a place where we can hide.” 

Suddenly her gaze became fixed and dream- 


2i 6 An Adventurer of the North 

like, and she said slowly: “In all time of our 
tribulation, in all time of our wealth, in the 
hour of death, and in the Day of Judgment, 
Good Lord, deliver us ! ” 

“ Good Lord, deliver us ! ” repeated Law- 
less, in a low voice. Without looking at them, 
she slowly turned away and passed up the hill- 
side, her eyes scanning the valley as before. 

“ Good Lord, deliver us ! ” again said Law- 
less. “ Where did she get it ?” 

“ From a book which Fingall left behind.” 

They watched her till she rounded a cliff, 
and was gone ; then they shouldered their kits 
and passed up the river on the trail of the wapiti. 
One month later, when a fine white surf of frost 
lay on the ground, and the sky was darkened 
often by the flight of the wild geese southward, 
they came upon a hut perched on a bluff, at the 
edge of a clump of pines. It was morning, 
and White-faced Mountain shone clear and high, 
without a touch of cloud or mist from its 
haunches to its crown. 

They knocked at the hut door, and, in answer 
to a voice, entered. The sunlight streamed in 
over a woman, lying upon a heap of dried 
flowers in a corner. A man was kneeling beside 
her. They came near and saw that the woman 
was Cynthie. 


217 


The Finding of Fingall 

“Fingall!” broke out Pierre, and caught 
the kneeling man by the shoulder. At the sound 
of his voice the woman’s eyes opened. 

“Fingall! — Oh, Fingall!” she said, and 
reached up a hand. 

Fingall stooped and caught her to his breast: 

“ Cynthie ! poor girl ! Oh, my poor Cyn- 
thie ! ” he said. 

In his eyes, as in hers, was a sane light, and 
his voice, as hers, said indescribable things. 

Her head sank upon his shoulder, her eyes 
closed ; she slept. Fingall laid her down with 
a sob in his throat ; then he sat up and clutched 
Pierre’s hand. 

“ In the East, where the doctors cured me, I 
heard all,” he said, pointing to her, “ and I came 
to find her. I was just in time ; I found her 
yesterday.” 

“ She knew you ? ” whispered Pierre. 

“Yes, but this fever came on.” He turned 
and looked at her, and, kneeling, smoothed 
away the hair from the quiet face. “ Poor girl!” 
he said ; “ poor girl !” 

“ She will get well ?” asked Pierre. 

“ God grant it ! ” Fingall replied. “ She is 
better — better !” 

Lawless and Pierre softly turned and stole 


2i8 An Adventurer of the North 

away, leaving the man alone with the woman he 
loved. 

The two stood in silence, looking upon the 
river beneath. Presently a voice crept through 
the stillness. 

“ Fingall ! Oh, Fingall !— Fingall ! ” 

It was the voice of a woman returning from 
the dead. 


Three Commandments in the 
Vulgar Tongue 
I 

“ Read on, Pierre,” the sick man said, doub- 
ling the corner of the wolf-skin pillow so that it 
shaded his face from the cradle. 

Pierre smiled to himself, thinking of the un- 
usual nature of his occupation, raised an eye- 
brow as if to some one sitting at the other side of 
the fire, — though the room was empty save for 
the two, — and went on reading : 

Woe to the multitude of many people^ which 
make a noise like the noise of the sea; and to the 
rushing of nations, that make a rushing like the 
rushing of mighty waters! 

""^The nations shall rush like the rushing of 
many waters: but God shall rebuke them, and 
they shall flee far off, and shall be chased as the 
chaff of the mountains before the wind, and like 
a rolling thing before the whirlwind. 

^^And behold at eveningtide trouble; and before 
the morning he is not. This is the portion of them 
that spoil us, and the lot of them that rob us.” 

2ig 


220 An Adventurer of the North 

The sick man put up his hand, motioning for 
silence, and Pierre, leaving the Bible open, laid 
it at his side. Then he fell to studying the 
figure on the couch. The body, though reduced 
by a sudden illness, had an appearance of late 
youth, a firmness of mature manhood ; but the 
hair was grey, the beard was grizzled; and the 
face was furrowed and seamed as though the 
man had lived a long, hard life. The body 
seemed thirty years old, the head sixty ; the 
man’s exact age was forty-five. His most singu- 
lar characteristic was a fine, almost spiritual in- 
telligence, which showed in the dewy brightness 
of the eye, in the lighted face, in the cadenced 
definiteness of his speech. One would have said, 
knowing nothing of him, that he was a hermit, 
but again, noting the firm, graceful outlines of 
of his body, that he was a soldier. Within the 
past twenty-four hours he had had a fight for 
life with one of the terrible “ colds ” which, like 
an unstayed plague, close up the course of the 
body, and carry a man out of the hurly-burly, 
without pause to say how much or how little he 
cares to go. 

Pierre, whose rude skill in medicine was got 
of hard experiences here and there, had helped 
him back into the world again, and was himself 
now a little astonished at acting as Scripture 


Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue 221 

reader to a Protestant invalid. Still, the Bible 
was like his childhood itself always with him in 
memory, and Old Testament history was as wine 
to his blood. The lofty tales sang in his veins : 
of primitive man, adventure, mysterious and ex- 
alted romance. For nearly an hour, with absorb- 
ing interest, he had read aloud from these an- 
cient chronicles to Fawdor, who held this post 
of the Hudson’s Bay Company in the outer 
wilderness. 

Pierre had arrived at the Post three days be- 
fore, to find a half-breed trapper and an Indian 
helpless before the sickness which was hurrying 
to close on John Fawdor’s Reart and clamp it in 
the vice of death. He had come just in time. 
He was now ready to learn, by what ways the 
future should show, why this man, of such un- 
usual force and power, should have lived at 
a desolate post in Labrador for twenty -five 
years. 

“ This is the portion of them that spoil us, 
and the lot of them that rob us — ” Fawdor 
repeated the words slowly, and then said : “ It 
is good to be out of the restless world. Do you 
know the secret of life, Pierre ? ” 

Pierre’s fingers unconsciously dropped on the 
Bible at his side, drumming the leaves. His 
eyes wandered over Fawdor’s face, and presently 


222 An Adventurer of the North 

he answered, “To keep your own command- 
ments.” 

“The ten ?” asked the sick man, pointing to 
the Bible. 

Pierre’s fingers closed the book. “ Not the 
ten, for they do not fit all ; but one by one to 
make your own, and never to break ^comme ga/” 

“The answer is well,” returned Fawdor; 
“ but what is the greatest commandment that a 
man can make for himself ?” 

“Who can tell? What is the good of saying, 
‘ Thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath day,’ when a 
man lives where he, does not know the days? 
What is the good of saying, ‘ Thou shalt not 
steal,’ when a man has no heart to rob, and 
there is nothing to steal? But a man should 
have a heart, an eye for justice. It is good for 
him to make his commandments against that 
wherein he is a fool or has a devil. Justice, that 
is the thing.” 

“‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against 
thy neighbour’?” asked Fawdor softly. 

“Yes, like that. But a man must put it in 
his own words, and keep the law which he 
makes. Then life does not give a bad taste in 
the mouth.” 

“ What commandments have you made for 
yourself, Pierre?” 


Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue 223 

The slumbering fire in Pierre’s face leaped 
up. He felt for an instant as his father, a chev- 
alier of France, might have felt if a peasant had 
presumed to finger the orders upon his breast. 
It touched his native pride, so little shown in 
anything else. But he knew the spirit behind 
the question, and the meaning justified the 
man. 

“ Thou shalt think with the minds of twelve 
men, and the heart of one woman,” he said, and 
paused. 

“Justice and mercy,” murmured the voice 
from the bed. 

“ Thou shalt keep the faith of food and 
blanket.” Again Pierre paused. 

“ And a man shall have no cause to fear his 
friend,” said the voice again. 

The pause was longer this time, and Pierre’s 
cold, handsome face took on a kind of softness 
before he said, “ Remember the sorrow of thine 
own wife.” 

“ It is a good commandment,” said the sick 
man, “ to make all women safe whether they be 
true — or foolish.” 

“ The strong should be ashamed to prey up- 
on the weak. Pshaw! such a sport ends in noth- 
ing. Man only is man’s game.” 

Suddenly Pierre added; “When you thought 


224 An Adventurer of the North 

you were going to die, you gave me some papers 
and letters to take to Quebec. You will get 
well. Shall I give them back? Will you take 
them yourself? ” 

Fawdor understood: Pierre wished to know 
his story. He reached out a hand, saying, “ I 
will take them myself. You have not read 
them?” 

“No. I was not to read them till you died 
— Men?'' He handed the packet over. 

“I will tell you the story,” Fawdor said, turn- 
ing over on his side, so that his eyes rested full 
on Pierre. 

He did not begin at once. An Esquimaux 
dog, of the finest and yet wildest breed, which 
had been lying before the fire, stretched itself, 
opened its red eyes at the two men, and, slowly 
rising, went to the door and sniffed at the cracks. 
Then it turned and began pacing restlessly 
around the room. Every little while it would 
stop, sniff the air and go on again. Once or 
twice, also, as it passed the couch of the sick 
man, it paused, and at last it suddenly rose, rested 
two feet on the rude headboard of the couch, and 
pushed its nose against the invalid’s head. 
There was something rarely savage and yet 
beautifully soft in the dog’s face, scarred as it 
was by the whips of earlier owners. The sick 


Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue 225 

man’s hand went up and caressed the wolfish 
head. “Good dog, good Akim!” he said softly 
in French. “Thou dost know when a storm is 
on the way; thou dost know, too, when there is 
a storm in my heart.” 

Even as he spoke a wind came crying round 
the house, and the parchment windows gave 
forth a soft booming sound. Outside, Nature 
was trembling lightly in all her nerves; belated 
herons, disturbed from the freshly frozen pool, 
swept away on tardy wings into the night and 
to the south; a herd of wolves trooped by the 
hut, passed from a short, easy trot, to a low, long 
gallop, devouring, yet fearful. It appeared as 
though the dumb earth were trying to speak, 
and the mighty effort gave it pain, from which 
came awe and terror to living things. 

So, inside the house, also, Pierre almost 
shrank from the unknown sorrow of this man 
beside him, who was about to disclose the story 
of his life. The solitary places do not make 
men glib of tongue; rather, spare of words. 
They whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suf- 
fer greatly, being given the woe of imagination, 
bring forth inner history as a mother gasps life 
into the world. 

“ I was only a boy of twenty-one,” Fawdor 
said from the pillow, as he watched the dog 


226 An Adventurer of the North 

noiselessly travelling from corner to corner, 
“ and I had been with the Company three years. 
They had said that I could rise fast; I had 
done so. I was ambitious; yet I find solace in 
thinking that I saw only one way to it, — by 
patience, industry and much thinking. I read 
a great deal, and cared for what I read; but I 
observed also, that in dealing with men I might 
serve myself and the Company wisely. 

“ One day the governor of the Company 
came from England, and with him a sweet lady, 
his young niece, and her brother. They ar- 
ranged for a tour to the Great Lakes, and I was 
chosen to go with them in command of the 
boatmen. It appeared as if a great chance had 
come to me, and so said the factor at Lachine 
on the morning we set forth. The girl was as 
winsome as you can think, not of such wonder- 
ful beauty, but with a face that would be finer 
old than young; and a dainty trick of humour 
had she as well. The governor was a testy man; 
he could not bear to be crossed in a matter; yet, 
in spite of all I did not think he had a wilful 
hardness. It was a long journey, and we were 
set at our wits to make it always interesting; but 
we did it somehow, for there were fishing and 
shooting, and adventure of one sort and an- 
other, and the lighter things, such as singing 


Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue 227 

and the telling of tales, as the boatmen rowed 
the long river. 

“ We talked of many things as we travelled, 
and I was glad to listen to the governor, for he 
had seen and read much. It was clear he liked 
to have us hang upon his tales and his grand 
speeches, which seemed a little large in the 
mouth; and his nephew, who had a mind for 
raillery, was now and again guilty of some witty 
impertinence; but this was hard to bring home 
to him, for he could assume a fine childlike look 
when he pleased, confusing to his accusers. 
Towards the last he grew bolder, and said many 
a biting thing to both the governor and myself, 
which more than once turned his sister’s face 
pale with apprehension, for she had ^ nice sense 
of kindness. Whenever the talk was at all gen- 
eral, it was his delight to turn one against the 
other. Though I was wary, and the girl under- 
stood his game, at last he had his way, 

I knew Shakespeare and the Bible very well, 
and, like most bookish young men, phrase and 
motto were much on my tongue, though not 
always given forth. One evening, as we drew to 
the camp-fire, a deer broke from the woods and 
ran straight through the little circle we were 
making, and disappeared in the bushes by the 
riverside. Someone ran for a rifle; but the gov- 


228 An Adventurer of the North 

ernor forbade, adding, with an air, a phrase 
with philosophical point. I, proud of the chance 
to show I was not a mere backwoodsman at such 
a sport, capped his aphorism with a line from 
Shakespeare’s Cymbeline. 

‘ Tut, tut !’ said the governor smartly: ‘ you 
haven’t it well, Mr. Fawdor ; it goes this way,’ 
and he went on to set me right. His nephew 
at that stepped in, and, with a little disdainful 
laugh at me, made some galling gibe at my 
^ distinguished learning.’ I might have known 
better than to let it pique me, but I spoke up 
again, though respectfully enough, that I was 
not wrong. It appeared to me all at once as if 
some principle were at stake, as if I were the 
champion of our Shakespeare, so will vanity de- 
lude us. 

“The governor — I can see it as if it were 
yesterday — seemed to go like ice, for he loved 
to be thought infallible in all such things as well 
as in great business affairs, and his nephew was 
there to give an edge to the matter. He said, 
curtly, that I would probably come on better in 
the world if I were more exact and less cock-a- 
hoop with myself. That stung me, for not only 
was the young lady looking on with a sort of 
superior pity, as I thought, but her brother was 
murmuring to her under his breath with a pro- 


Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue 229 

yoking smile. I saw no reason why I should be 
treated like a schoolboy. As far as my knowl- 
edge went it was as good as another man’s, were 
he young or old, so I came in quickly with my 
reply. I said that his excellency should find 
me more cock-a-hoop with Shakespeare than 
with myself. ‘Well, well,’ he answered, with a 
severe look, ‘our Company has need of great 
men for hard tasks.’ To this I made no answer, 
for I got a warning look from the young lady, 
— a look which had a sort of reproach and com- 
mand too. She knew the twists and turns of 
her uncle’s temper, and how he was imperious 
and jealous in little things. The matter dropped 
for the time; but as the governor was going to 
his tent for the night, the young lady said to me 
hurriedly, ‘ My uncle is a man of great reading 
— and power, Mr. Fawdor. I would set it right 
with him, if I were yoi’.’ For the moment I 
was ashamed. You cannot guess how fine an 
eye she had, and how her voice stirred one ! 
She said no more, but stepped inside her tent; 
and then I heard the brother say over my shoul- 
der, ‘ Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be 
proud ! ’ Afterwards, with a little laugh and a 
backward wave of the hand, as one might toss a 
greeting to a beggar, he was gone also, and I 
was left alone.” 


230 An Adventurer of the North 

Fawdor paused in his narrative. The dog 
had lain down by the fire again, but its red eyes 
were blinking at the door, and now and again it 
growled softly, and the long hair at its mouth 
seemed to shiver with feeling. Suddenly 
through the night there rang a loud, barking 
cry. The dog’s mouth opened and closed in a 
noiseless snarl, showing its keen, long teeth, and 
a ridge of hair bristled on its back. But the 
two men made no sign or motion. The cry of 
wild cats was no new thing to them. 

Presently the other continued: “I sat by 
the fire and heard beasts howl like that, I list- 
ened to the river churning over the rapids be- 
low, and I felt all at once a loneliness that turned 
me sick. There were three people in a tent near 
me; I could even hear the governor’s breathing; 
but I appeared to have no part in the life of any 
human being, as if I were a kind of outlaw of 
God and man. I was poor; I had no friends; 
I was at the mercy of this great Company; if I 
died there was not a human being who, so far as 
I knew, would shed a tear. Well, you see I was 
only a boy, and I suppose it was the spirit of 
youth hungering for the huge, active world and 
the companionship of ambitious men. There is 
no one so lonely as the young dreamer on the 
brink of life. 


Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue 23 1 

“ I was lying by the fire. It was not a cold 
night, and I fell asleep at last without covering. 
I did not wake till morning, and then it was to 
find the governor’s nephew building up the fire 
again. ‘Those who are born great,’ said he, 
‘are bound to rise.’ But perhaps he saw that I 
had had a bad night, and felt that he had gone 
far enough, for he presently said, in a tone more 
to my liking, ‘Take my advice, Mr. Fawdor ; 
make it right with my uncle. It isn ’t such fast 
rising in the Company that you can afford to 
quarrel with its governor. I ’d go on the other 
tack; don’t be too honest.’ I thanked him, and 
no more was said; but I liked him better, for I 
saw that he was one of those who take pleasure 
in dropping nettles more to see the weakness of 
human nature than from malice. 

“ But my good fortune had got a twist, and 
it was not to be straightened that day ; and be- 
cause it was not straightened then it was not to 
be at all ; for at five o’clock we came to the post 
at Lachine, and here the governor and the 
others were to stop. During all the day I had 
waited for my chance to say a word of apology 
to his excellency, but it was no use ; nothing 
seemed to help me, for he was busy with his 
papers and notes, and I also had to finish up my 
reports. The hours went by, and I saw my 


232 An Adventurer of the North 

chances drift past. I knew that the governor 
held the thing against me, and not the less be- 
cause he saw me more than once that day in 
speech with his niece. For she appeared anx- 
ious to cheer me, and indeed I think we might 
have become excellent friends had our ways run 
together. She could have bestowed her friend- 
ship on me without shame to herself, for I had 
come of an old family in Scotland, the Sheplaws 
of Canfire, which she knew, as did the governor 
also, was a more ancient family than their own. 
Yet her kindness that day worked me no good, 
and I went far to make it worse, since, under 
the spell of her gentleness, I looked at her far 
from distantly, and at the last, as she was get- 
ting from the boat, returned the pressure of her 
hand with much interest. I suppose something 
of the pride of that moment leaped up in my 
eye, for I saw the governor’s face harden more 
and more, and the brother shrugged an ironical 
shoulder. I was too young to see or know that 
the chief thing in the girl’s mind was regret that 
I had so hurt my chances ; for she knew, as I 
saw only too well afterwards, that I might have 
been rewarded with a leaping promotion in hon- 
our of the success of the journey. But though 
the boatmen got a gift of money and tobacco 
and spirits, nothing came to me save the formal 


Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue 233 

thanks of the governor, as he bowed me from 
his presence. 

“The nephew came with his sister to bid me 
farewell. There was little said between her and 
me, and it was a long, long time before she 
knew the end of that day’s business. But the 
brother said, ‘You’ve let the chance go by, Mr. 
Fawdor. Better luck next time, eh ? And,’ he 
went on, ‘I’d give a hundred editions the lie, 
but I ’d read the text according to my chief offi- 
cer. The words of a king are always wise while 
his head is on,’ he declared further, and he drew 
from his scarf a pin of pearls and handed it to 
me. ‘Will you wear that for me, Mr. Fawdor?’ 
he asked ; and I, who had thought him but a 
stripling with a saucy pride, grasped his hand 
and said a God-keep-you. It does me good now 
to think I said it. I did not see him or his sis- 
ter again. 

“The next day was Sunday. About two 
o’clock I was sent for by the governor. When I 
got to the Post and was admitted to him, I saw 
that my misadventure was not over. ‘Mr. Faw- 
dor,’ said he coldly, spreading out a map on the 
table before him, ‘you will start at once for Fort 
Ungava, at Ungava Bay, in Labrador.’ I felt 
my heart stand still for a moment, and then 
surge up and down, like a piston-rod under a 


234 An Adventurer of the North 

sudden rush of steam. ‘You will proceed, now,’ 
he went on, in his hard voice, ‘as far as the vil- 
lage of Pont Croix. There you will find three 
Indians awaiting you. You will go on with 
them as far as Point St. Saviour and camp for the 
night, for if the Indians remain in the village 
they may get drunk. The next morning at sun- 
rise, you will move on. The Indians know the 
trail across Labrador to Fort Ungava. When 
you reach there, you will take command of the 
Post and remain till further orders. Your clothes 
are already at the village. I have had them 
packed, and you will find there also what is nec- 
essary for the journey. The factor at Ungava 
was there ten years ; he has gone — to heaven.’ 

“I cannot tell what it was held my tongue 
silent, that made me only bow my head in assent 
and press my lips together. I knew I was pale 
as death, for as I turned to leave the room I 
caught sight of my face in a little mirror tacked 
on the door, and I hardly recognized myself. 

“ ‘ Good-day, Mr. Fawdor,’ said the governor 
handing me the map. ‘There is some brandy 
in your stores; be careful that none of your In- 
dians get it. If they try to desert, you know 
what to do.’ With a gesture of dismissal he 
turned, and began to speak with the chief trader. 

“For me, I went from that room like a man 


Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue 235 

condemned to die. Fort Ungava in Labrador, 
— a thousand miles away, over a barren, savage 
country, and in winter, too; for it would be 
winter there immediately. It was an exile to 
Siberia, and far worse than Siberia ; for there are 
many there to share the fellowship of misery, 
and I was likely to be the only white man at 
Fort Ungava. As I passed from the door of 
the Post, the words of Shakespeare which had 
brought all this about sang in my ears.” He 
ceased speaking, and sank back wearily among 
the skins of his couch. Out of the enveloping 
silence Pierre’s voice came softly : 

“ Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve 
men, and the heart of one woman.” 

II 

‘‘The journey to the village of Pont Croix 
was that of a man walking over graves. Every 
step sent a pang to my heart, — a boy of twenty- 
one, grown old in a moment. It was not that I 
had gone a little lame from a hurt got on the 
expedition with the governor, but my whole life 
seemed suddenly lamed. Why did I go ? Ah, 
you do not know how discipline gets into a 
man’s bones, — the pride, the indignant pride of 
obedience. At that hour I swore that I should 


236 An Adventurer of the North 

myself be the governor of that Company one 
day, — the boast of loud-hearted youth. I had 
angry visions, I dreamed absurd dreams, but I 
did not think of disobeying. It was an unheard- 
of journey at such a time, but I swore that I 
would do it, that it should go into the records 
of the Company. 

“ I reached the village, found the Indians, 
and at once moved on to the settlement where 
we were to stay that night. Then my knee be- 
gan to pain me. I feared inflammation ; so in 
the dead of night I walked back to the village, 
roused a trader of the Company, got some lini- 
ment and other trifles, and arrived again at St. 
Saviour before dawn. My few clothes and 
necessaries came in the course of the morning, 
and by noon we were fairly started on the path 
to exile. 

“I remember that we came to a lofty point 
on the St. Lawrence just before we plunged into 
the woods, to see the great stream no more. I 
stood and looked back up the river towards the 
point where Lachine lay. All that went to make 
the life of a Company’s man possible was there; 
and there, too, were those with whom I had 
tented and travelled for three long months, — 
eaten with them, cared for them, used for them 
all the woodcraft that I knew. I could not 


Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue 237 

think that it would be a young man’s lifetime 
before I set eyes on that scene again. Never 
from that day to this have I seen the broad, 
sweet river where I spent the three happiest 
years of my life. I can see now the tall shining 
heights of Quebec, the pretty, wooded Island of 
Orleans, the winding channel, so deep, so strong. 
The sun was three-fourths of its way down in 
the west, and already the sky was taking on the 
deep red and purple of autumn. Somehow, the 
thing that struck me most in the scene was a 
bunch of pines, solemn and quiet, their tops bur- 
nished by the afternoon light. Tears would 
have been easy then. But my pride drove them 
back from my eyes to my angry heart. Besides, 
there were my Indians waiting, and the long 
journey lay before us. Then, perhaps because 
there was none nearer to make farewell to, or I 
know not why, I waved my hand towards the 
distant village of Lachine, and, with the sweet 
maid in my mind who had so gently parted from 
me yesterday, I cried, ‘ Good-bye, and God bless 
you.’ ” 

He paused. Pierre handed him a wooden 
cup, from which he drank, and then con- 
tinued : — 

“The journey went forward. You have seen 
the country. You know what it is : those bare 


238 An Adventurer of the North 

ice-plains and rocky unfenced fields stretching 
to all points, the heaving wastes of treeless coun- 
try, the harsh frozen lakes. God knows what 
insupportable horror would have settled on me 
in that pilgrimage had it not been for occasional 
glimpses of a gentler life — for the deer and 
caribou which crossed our path. Upon my soul, 
I was so full of gratitude and love at the sight 
that I could have thrown my arms round their 
necks and kissed them. I could not raise a gun 
at them. My Indians did that, and so incon- 
stant is the human heart that I ate heartily of the 
meat. My Indians were almost less companion- 
able to me than any animal would have been. 
Try as I would, I could not bring myself to like 
them, and I feared only too truly that they did 
not like me. Indeed, I soon saw that they 
meant to desert me, — kill me, perhaps, if they 
could, although I trusted in the wholesome and 
restraining fear which the Indian has of the 
great Company. I was not sure that they were 
guiding me aright, and I had to threaten death 
in case they tried to mislead me or desert me. 
My knee at times was painful, and cold, hunger, 
and incessant watchfulness wore on me vastly. 
Yet I did not yield to my miseries, for there en- 
tered into me then not only the spirit of endur- 
ance, but something of that sacred pride in 


Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue 239 

suffering which was the merit of my Covenant- 
ing forefathers. 

“ We were four months on that bitter travel, 
and I do not know how it could have been made 
at all, had it not been for the deer that I had 
heart to eat and none to kill. The days got 
shorter and shorter, and we were sometimes 
eighteen hours in absolute darkness. Thus you 
can imagine how slowly we went. Thank God, 
we could sleep, hid away in our fur bags, more 
often without a fire than with one, — mere mum- 
mies stretched out on a vast coverlet of white, 
with the peering, unfriendly sky above us ; 
though it must be said that through all those 
many, many weeks no cloud perched in the 
zenith. When there was light there was sun, and 
the courage of it entered into our bones, helping 
to save us. You may think I have been made 
feeble-minded by my sufferings, but I tell you 
plainly that, in the closing days of our journey, 
I used to see a tall figure walking beside me, 
who, whenever I would have spoken to him, 
laid a warning finger on his lips ; but when 
I would have fallen, he spoke to me, always 
in the same words. You have heard of him, 
the Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash Hills. It was 
he, the Sentinel of the North, the Lover of 
the Lost. So deep did his words go into my 


240 An Adventurer of the North 

heart that they have remained with me to this 
hour.” 

“ I saw him once in the White Valley,” Pierre 
said, in a low voice. “ What was it he said to 
you ? ” 

The other drew a long breath, and a smile 
rested on his lips. Then, slowly, as though lik- 
ing to linger over them, he repeated the words 
of the Scarlet Hunter : 

“ ‘ O son of man, behold ! 

If thou shouldst stumble on the nameless trail, 

The trail that no man rides, 

Lift up thy heart, 

Behold, O son of man, thou hast a helper near ! 


“ ‘ O son of man, take heed ! 

If thou shouldst fall upon the vacant plain. 

The plain that no man loves. 

Reach out thy hand. 

Take heed, O, son of man ! strength shall be given 
thee ! 


“ ‘ O son of man, rejoice ! 

If thou art blinded even at the door, 

The door of the Safe Tent, 

Sing in thy heart. 

Rejoice, O son of man, thy pilot leads thee home ! ’ 


“ I never seemed to be alone after that — 
call it what you will, fancy or delirium. My 
head was so light that it appeared to spin like a 


Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue 241 

star, and my feet were so heavy that I dragged 
the whole earth after me. My Indians seldom 
spoke. I never let them drop behind me, for 
I did not trust their treacherous natures. But in 
the end, as it would seem, they also had but one 
thought, and that to reach Fort Ungava ; for 
there was no food left — none at all. We saw 
no tribes of Indians and no Esquimaux, for we 
had not passed in their line of travel or settle- 
ment. 

“ At last I used to dream that birds were sing- 
ing near me — a soft, delicate whirlwind of 
sound ; and then bells all like muffled silver rang 
through the aching, sweet air. Bits of prayer 
and poetry I learned when a boy flashed through 
my mind ; equations in algebra ; the tingling 
scream of a great buzz-saw; the breath of a racer 
as he nears the post under the crying whip ; my 
own voice dropping loud profanity, heard as a 
lad from a blind ferryman ; the boom / boom f 
of a mass of logs as they struck a house on a 
flooding river and carried it away. . . . 

“ One day we reached the end. It was near 
evening, and we came to the top of a wooded 
knoll. My eyes were dancing in my head 
with fatigue and weakness, but I could see 
below us, on the edge of the great bay, a 
large hut, Esquimaux lodges and Indian tepees 


242 An Adventurer of the North 

near it. It was the Fort, my cheerless prison- 
house.” 

He paused. The dog had been watching 
him with its flaming eyes ; now it gave a low 
growl, as though it understood and pitied. In 
the interval of silence the storm without broke. 
The trees began to quake and cry, the light snow 
to beat upon the parchment windows, and the 
chimney to splutter and moan. Presently, out 
on the bay they could hear the young ice break 
and come scraping up the shore. Fawdor list- 
ened a while, and then went on, waving his hand 
to the door as he began : “ Think ! this, and 
like that always, the ungodly strife of nature, 
and my sick disconsolate life.” 

Ever since ?” asked Pierre. 

“All the time.” 

“ Why did you not go back ? ” 

“ I was to wait for orders, and they never 
came.” 

“You were a free man, not a slave.” 

“The human heart has pride. At first, as 
when I left the governor at Lachine, I said, “ I 
will never speak ; I will never ask nor bend the 
knee. He has the power to oppress ; I can obey 
without whining — as fine a man as he.’ ” 

“ Did you not hate ? ” 

“ At first, as only a banished man can hate. 


Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue 243 

I knew that if all had gone well I should be a 
man high up in the Company, and here I was, 
living like a dog in the porch of the world, 
sometimes without other food for months than 
frozen fish ; and for two years I was in a 
place where we had no fire — lived in a snow- 
house, with only blubber to eat. And so year 
after year — no world ! ” 

‘‘The mail came once every year from the 
world ? ” 

“Yes, once a year the door of the outer life 
was opened. A ship came into the bay, and by 
that ship I sent out my reports. But no word 
came from the governor, and no request went 
from me. Once the captain of that ship took 
me by the shoulders, and said, ‘ Fawdor, man, 
this will drive you mad. Come away to Eng- 
land — leave your half-breed in charge — and 
ask the governor for a big promotion.’ He did 
not understand. Of course I said I could not 
go. Then he turned on me — he was a good 
man — and said, ‘This will either make you 
madman or saint, Fawdor.’ He drew a Bible 
from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘I ’ve 
used it twenty years,’ he said, ‘ in evil and out 
of evil, and I ’ve spiked it here and there ; it ’s 
a chart for heavy seas, and may you find it so, 
my lad.’ 


244 An Adventurer of the North 

“ I said little then ; but when I saw the sails 
of his ship round a cape and vanish, all my pride 
and strength were broken up, and I came in a 
heap to the ground, weeping like a child. But 
the change did not come all at once. There 
were two things that kept me hard.” 

“ The girl ? ” 

“ The girl, and another. But of the young 
lady after. I had a half-breed whose life I had 
saved. I was kind to him always ; gave him as 
good to eat and drink as I had myself ; divided 
my tobacco with him ; loved him as only an 
exile can love a comrade. He conspired with 
the Indians to seize the Fort and stores, and 
kill me if I resisted. I found it out.” 

“Thou shalt keep the faith of food and 
blanket,” said Pierre. “ What did you do with 
him?” 

“The fault was not his so much as of his 
race and his miserable past. I had loved him. 
I sent him away ; and he never came back.” 

“ Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve 
men, and the heart of one woman.” 

“For the girl. There was the thing that 
clamped my heart. Never a message from her 
or her brother. Surely they knew, and yet 
never, thought I, a good word for me to the 
governor. They had forgotten the faith of food 


Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue 245 

and blanket. And she — she must have seen 
that I could have worshiped her had we been 
in the same way of life. Before the better days 
came to me I was hard against her ; hard and 
rough at heart.” 

“ Remember the sorrow of thine own wife.” 
Pierre’s voice was gentle. 

“Truly, to think hardly of no woman should 
be always in a man’s heart. But I have known 
only one woman of my race in twenty-five 
years ! ” 

“ And as time went on ? ” 

“As time went on, and no word came, I 
ceased to look for it. But I followed that chart 
spiked with the captain’s pencil, as he had done 
it in season and out of season, and by and by 
I ceased to look for any word. I even became 
reconciled to my life. The ambitious and ach- 
ing cares of the world dropped from me, and I 
stood above all — alone in my suffering, yet not 
yielding. Loneliness is a terrible thing. Un- 
der it a man — ” 

“Goes mad or becomes a saint — a saint!” 
Pierre’s voice became reverent. 

Fawdor shook his head, smiling gently. “Ah 
no, no. But I began to understand the world, 
and I loved the north, the beautiful hard 
north ! ” 


246 An Adventurer of the North 

‘‘But there is more?” 

“Yes, the end of it all. Three days before 
you came I got a packet of letters, not by the 
usual yearly mail. One announced that the gov- 
ernor was dead. Another — ” 

“Another ?” urged Pierre — 

— “ was from Her. She said that her brother, 
on the day she wrote, had by chance come across 
my name in the Company’s records, and found 
that I had been here a quarter of a century. 
It was the letter of a good woman. She said 
she thought the governor had forgotten that he 
had sent me here — as now I hope he had, for 
that would be one thing less for him to think of 
when he set out on the journey where the only 
weight a man carries is the packload of his sins. 
She also said that she had written to me twice 
after we parted at Lachine, but had never heard 
a word, and three years afterwards she had gone 
to India. The letters were lost, I suppose, on 
the way to me, somehow — who can tell ? Then 
came another thing, so strange, that it seemed 
like the laughter of the angels at us. These 
were her words : ‘And dear Mr. Fawdor, you 
were both wrong in that quotation, as you no 
doubt discovered long ago.’ Then she gave me 
the sentence as it is in Cymbeline. She was 
right, quite right ; we were both wrong. Never 


Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue 247 

till her letter came had I looked to see. How 
vain, how uncertain and fallible is man ! ” 

Pierre dropped his cigarette and stared at 
Fawdor. “ The knowledge of books is foolery, ” 
he said, slowly. “ Man is the only book of life. 
Go on.” 

“ There was another letter from the brother, 
who was now high up in the Company, asking 
me to come to England, and saying that they 
wished to promote me far, and that he and his 
sister, with their families, would be glad to see 
me.” 

“ She was married, then ? ” 

The rashness of the suggestion made Faw- 
dor wave his hand impatiently. He would not 
reply to it. “ I was struck down with all the 
news,” he said. “ I wandered like a child out 
into a mad storm. Illness came ; then you, who 
have nursed me back to life. . . . And now I 
have told all.” 

“Not all, bien sur. What will you do ? ” 

“ I am out of the world ; why tempt it all 
again ? See how those twenty-five years were 
twisted by a boy’s vanity and a man’s tyranny ! ” 
“ But what will you do ? ” persisted Pierre. 
“You should see the faces of women and chil- 
dren again. No man can live without that 
sight, even as a saint.” 


248 An Adventurer of the North 

Suddenly Fawdor’s face was shot over with a 
storm of feeling. He lay very still, his thoughts 
busy with a new world which had been disclosed 
to him. ‘‘Youth hungers for the vanities,” he 
said, “and the middle-aged for home.” He 
took Pierre’s hand. “ I will go,” he added. “A 
door will open somewhere for me.” 

Then he turned his face to the wall. The 
storm had ceased, the wild dog huddled quietly 
on the hearth, and for hours the only sound was 
the crackling of the logs as Pierre stirred the 
fire. 


Little Babiche 


“ No, no, m’sieu’ the governor, they did not 
tell you right. I was with him, and I have 
known Little Babiche fifteen years — as long as 
I ’ve known you. ... It was against the time 
when down in your world there they have feast- 
ings, and in the churches the grand songs and 
many candles on the altars. Yes, Noel, that is 
the word — the day of the Great Birth. You 
shall hear how strange it all was — the thing, the 
time, the end of it.” 

The governor of the great Company settled 
back in a chair, his powerful face seamed by 
years, his hair grey and thick still, his keen, 
steady eyes burning under shaggy brows. He 
had himself spent long solitary years in the wild 
fastnesses of the north. He fastened his dark 
eyes on Pierre, and said : “ Monsieur Pierre, I 
shall be glad to hear. It was at the time of Noel 
— yes ?” 

Pierre began : ‘‘You have seen it beautiful 
and cold in the north, but never so cold and 
beautiful as it was last year. The world was white 
249 


250 An Adventurer of the North 

with sun and ice ; the frost never melting, the 
sun never warming — just a glitter, so lovely, so 
deadly. If only you could keep the heart warm, 
you were not afraid. But if once — just for a 
moment — the blood ran out from the heart and 
did not come in again, the frost clamped the 
doors shut, and there was an end of all. Ah, 
m’sieu’, when the north clinches a man’s heart 
in anger there is no pain like it — for a mo- 
ment.” 

“ Yes, yes ; and Little Babiche ? ” 

“ For ten years he carried the mails along the 
route of Fort Ste. Mary, Fort O’ Glory, Fort St. 
Saviour, and Fort Perseverance within the circle 
— just one mail once a year, but that was enough. 
There he was with his Esquimaux dogs on the 
trail, going and coming, with a laugh and a word 
for anyone that crossed his track. ‘ Good-day, 
Babiche!’ ‘ Good-day, m’sieu’l’ ‘ How do you, 
Babiche?’ ‘Well, thank the Lord, m’sieu’l’ 

‘ Where to and where from, Babiche ? ’ ‘To the 
Great Fort by the old trail, from the Far-off 
River, m’sieu’.’ ‘Come safe along, Babiche?’ 
‘ Merci^ m’sieu’ ; the good God travels north, 
m’sieu’.’ ‘Adieu, Babiche!’ ‘Adieu, m’sieu’!’ 
That is about the way of the thing, year after 
year. Sometimes a night at a hut or a post, but 
mostly alone — alone except for the dogs. He 


Little Babiche 


251 

slept with them, and they slept on the mails — 
to guard : as though there should be highway- 
men on the Prairie of the Ten Stars ! But no ! 
it was his way, m’sieu’. Now and again I crossed 
him on the trail, for have I not traveled to every 
corner of the north ? We were not so great 
friends, for — well, Babiche is a man who says 
his aves, and never was a loafer, and there was 
no reason why he should have love for me ; but 
we were good company when we met. I knew 
him when he was a boy down on the Chaudi^re, 
and he always had a heart like a lion — and a 
woman. I had seen him fight ; I had seen him 
suffer cold, and I had heard him sing. 

‘‘Well, I was up last fall to Fort St. Saviour. 
Ho, how dull was it ! Macgregor, the trader 
there, has brains like rubber. So, I said, I will 
go down to Fort O’ Glory. I knew some one 
would be there — it is nearer the world. So I 
started away with four dogs and plenty of jerked 
buffalo, and so much brown brandy as Mac- 
gregor could squeeze out of his eye! Never, never, 
was there such days — the frost shaking like 
steel and silver as it powdered the sunlight, the 
white level of snow lifting and falling, and fall- 
ing and lifting, the sky so great a travel away, 
the air which made you cry out with pain one 
minute and gave you joy the next. And all so 


252 An Adventurer of the North 

wild, so lonely ! Yet I have seen hanging in 
those plains cities all blue and red, with millions 
of lights showing, and voices, voices everywhere, 
like the singing of soft masses. After a time 
in that cold up there you are no longer yourself 
— no. You move in a dream. 

“ Eh bien^ m’sieu’, there came, I thought, a 
dream to me one evening — well, perhaps one 
afternoon, for the days are short — so short, the 
sun just coming over a little bend of sky, and 
sinking down like a big orange ball. I come out 
of a tumble of little hills, and there over on the 
plains I saw a sight ! Ragged hills of ice were 
thrown up, as if they’d been heaved out by the 
breaking earth, jutting here and there like 
wedges — like the teeth of a world. A/ors, on 
one crag, shaped as an anvil, I saw what struck 
me like a blow, and I felt the blood shoot out 
of my heart and leave it dry. I was for a min- 
ute like a pump with no water in its throat to 
work the piston and fetch the stream up. I 
got sick and numb. There on that anvil of 
snow and ice I saw a big white bear, one such 
as you shall see within the Arctic Circle. His 
long nose fetching out towards the bleeding sun 
in the sky, his white coat shining. But that 
was not the thing — there was another. At 
the feet of the bear was a body, and one 


Little Babiche 


253 

clawed foot was on that body — of a man. So 
clear was the air, the red sun shining on the 
face as it was turned towards me, that I wonder 
I did not at once know whose it was. You can- 
not think, m’sieu’, what that was like — no. 
But all at once I remembered the Chant of the 
Scarlet Hunter. I spoke it quick, and the blood 
came creeping back in here.” . He tapped his 
chest with his slight forefinger. 

“ What was the chant ? ” asked the governor, 
who had scarce stirred a muscle since the tale 
began. 

Pierre made a little gesture of deprecation. 
“ Ah, it is perhaps a thing of foolishness, as you 
may think — ” 

“No, no. I have heard and seen in my 
day,” urged the governor. 

“ So ? Good. Yes, I remember ; you told 
me years ago, m’sieu’. . . . 

‘“The blinding Trail and Night and Cold are 
man’s : mine is the trail that finds the Ancient Lodge. 
Morning and Night, they travel with me ; my camp 
is set by the pines, its fires are burning — are burning. 
The lost, they shall sit by my fires, and the fearful 
ones shall seek, and the sick shall abide. I am the 
Hunter, the Son of the North ; I am thy lover where 
no man may love thee. With me thou shalt journey, 
and thine the Safe Tent,’ 


254 Adventurer of the North 

“As I said, the blood came back to my 
heart. I turned to my dogs and gave them a 
cut with the whip to see if I dreamed. They 
sat back and snarled, and their wild red eyes, 
the same as mine, kept looking at the bear and 
the quiet man on the anvil of ice and snow. 
Tell me, can you think of anything like it ? — 
the strange light, the white bear of the Pole, 
that has no friends at all except the shooting 
stars, the great ice plains, the quick night hur- 
rying on, the silence — such silence as no man 
can think ! I have seen trouble flying at me in 
a hundred ways, but this was different — yes. 
We come to the foot of the little hill. Still the 
bear not stir. As I went up, feeling for my 
knives and my gun, the dogs began to snarl with 
anger, and for one little step I shivered, for the 
thing seems not naturaj. I was about two hun- 
dred feet away from the bear when it turned 
slow round at me, lifting its foot from the body. 
The dogs all at once come huddling about me, 
and I dropped on my knee to take aim, but the 
bear stole away from the man and come mov- 
ing down past us at an angle, making for the 
plain. I could see his deep shining eyes, and 
the steam roll from his nose in long puffs. Very 
slow and heavy, like as if he see no one and 
care for no one, he shambled down, and in a 


Little Babiche 


255 

minute was gone behind a boulder. I ran on to 
the man — ” 

The governor was leaning forward, looking 
intently, and said now, “ It ’s like a wild dream 
— but the north! — the north is near to the 
Strangest of All ! ” 

“ I knelt down and lifted him up in my arms, 
all a great bundle of furs and wool, and I got 
my hand at last to his wrist. He was alive. It 
was Little Babiche 1 Part of his face was frozen 
stiff. I rubbed out the frost with snow, and then 
I forced some brandy into his mouth — good 
old H. B. C. brandy — and began to call to him: 
‘ Babiche ! Babiche 1 Come back, Babiche ! 
The wolf ’s at the pot, Babiche ! ’ That ’s the 
way to call a hunter to his share of meat. I was 
afraid, for the sleep of cold is the sleep of death, 
and it is hard to call the soul back to this world. 
But I called, and kept calling, and got him on 
his feet, with my arm around him. I gave him 
more brandy , and at last I almost shrieked in 
his ear. Little by little I saw his face take on 
the look of waking life. It was like the dawn 
creeping over white hills and spreading into 
day. I said to myself, What a thing it will be 
if I can fetch him back I For I never knew 
one to come back after the sleep had settled on 
them. It is too comfortable — all pain gone, all 


256 An Adventurer of the North 

trouble, the world forgot, just a kind weight in 
all the body, as you go sinking down, down to 
the valley, where the long hands of old com- 
rades beckon to you, and their soft, high voices 
cry, “ Hello / hello-o / ’ ” 

Pierre nodded his head towards the distance, 
and a musing smile divided his lips on his white 
teeth. Presently he folded a cigarette, and went 
on — 

“ I had saved something to the last, as the great 
test ; as the one thing to open his eyes wide, if 
they could be opened at all. Alors, there was 
no time to lose, for the Wolf of Night was driv- 
ing the red glow-worm down behind the world, 
and I knew that when darkness came altogether — 
darkness and night — there would be no help for 
him. Mon Dieu / how one sleeps in the night 
of the north, in the beautiful wide silence ! . . . 
So, m’sieu’, just when I thought it was the time, 
I called : ‘ Corinne ! Corinne ! ’ Then ' once 
again I said, ‘P ’tite Corinne ! P ’tite Corinne ! 
Come home ! come home ! P ’tite Corinne ! ’ I 
could see the fight in the jail of sleep. But at 
last he killed his jailer ; the doors in his brain 
flew open, and his mind came out through his 
wide eyes. But he was blind a little and dazed, 
though it was getting dark quick. I struck his 
back hard, and spoke loud from a song that we 


Little Babiche 


257 

used to sing on the Chaudi^re — Babiche and 
all of us, years ago. Mon Dieu! how I remem- 
ber those days ! 

“ ‘ Which is the way that the sun goes ? 

The way that my little one come. 

Which is the good path over the hills ? 

The path that leads to my little one’s home — 

To my little one’s home, m’sieu’, m’sieu’!' 

“ That did it. ‘ Corinne, ma p ’tite Corinne ! ’ 
he said ; but he did not look at me — only 
stretch out his hands. I caught them, and shook 
them, and shook him, and made him take a step 
forward ; then I slap him on the back again, and 
said loud, ‘Come, come, Babiche, don’t you 
know me ? See, Babiche, the snow’s no sleeping- 
bunk, and a polar bear ’s no good friend.’ ‘ Cor- 
inne I ’ he went on, soft and slow. ‘ Ma p ’tite 
Corinne ! * He smiled to himself ; and I said, 
‘ Where *ve you been, Babiche ? Lucky I found 
you, or you ’d have been sleeping till the Great 
Mass.’ Then he looked at me straight in the 
eyes, and something wild shot out of his. His 
hand stretched over and caught me by the shoul- 
der, perhaps to steady himself, perhaps because 
he wanted to feel something human. Then he 
looked round slow — all round the plain, as if 
to find something. At that moment a little of 
the sun crept back, and looked up over the wall 


258 An Adventurer of the North 

of ice, making a glow of yellow and red for a 
moment ; and never, north or south, have I 
seen such beauty — so delicate, so awful. It was 
like a world that its Maker had built in a fit of 
joy, and then got tired of, and broke in pieces, 
and blew out all its fires, and left — ah yes — 
like that ! And out in the distance I — I only 
saw a bear travelling eastward.” 

The governor said slowly : 

. “ ‘ And I took My staff Beauty, and cut it asunder, 
that I might break My covenant which I had made 
with all the people. ’ ' 

“Yes — like that.” Pierre continued : “ Ba- 
biche turned to me with a little laugh, which 
was a sob too. ‘ Where is it, Pierre ? ’ said he. 
I knew he meant the bear. ^ Gone to look for 
another man,’ I said, with a gay look, for I saw 
that he was troubled. ‘ Come,’ said he, at once. 
As we went, he saw my dogs. He stopped short 
and shook a little, and tears came into his eyes. 

‘ What is it, Babiche ? ’ said I. He looked back 
towards the south. ' My dogs — Brandy- wine, 
Come-along, ’Poleon, and the rest — died one 
night all of an hour. One by one they crawl 
over to where I lay in my fur bag, and die there, 
huddling by me — and such cries — such cries ! 
There was poison or something in the frozen 
fish I ’d given them. I loved them every one ; 


Little Babiche 


259 

and then there was the mails, the year’s mails — 
how should they be brought on ? That was a 
bad thought, for I had never missed — never in 
ten years. There was one bunch of letters which 
the governor said to me was worth more than all 
the rest of the mail put together, and I was to 
bring it to Fort St. Saviour, or not show my face 
to him again. 

“ T leave the dogs there in the snow, and came 
on with the sled, carrying all the mails. Ah, 
the blessed saints, how heavy the sled got, arid 
how lonely it was ! Nothing to speak to — no 
one, no thing, day after day. At last I go to 
cry to the dogs, “ Come-along ! ’Poleon ! Bran- 
dy-wine ! ” — like that ! I think I see them there, 
but they never bark and they never snarl, and 
they never spring to the snap of the whip. . . . 
I was alone. Oh, my head ! my head ! If there 
was only something alive to look at, besides the 
wide white plain, and the bare hills of ice, and 
the sun-dogs in the sky ! Now I was wild, next 
hour I was like a child, then I gnashed my teeth 
like a wolf at the sun, and at last I got on my 
knees. The tears froze my eye-lids shut, but I 
kept saying, “Ah, my great Friend, my Jesu, just 
something, something with the breath of life ! 
Leave me not all alone ! ” And I got sleepier 
all the time- 


26 o An Adventurer of the North 

*vas sinking, sinking, so quiet and easy, 
when all at once I felt something beside me ; I 
could hear it breathing, but I could not open my 
eyes at first, for, as I say, the lashes were froze. 
Something touch me, smell me, and a nose was 
push against my chest. I put out my hand ver’ 
soft and touch it. I had no fear ; I was so glad 
I could have hugged it, but I did not — I drew 
back my hand quiet and rub my eyes. In a little 
I can see. There stand the thing — a polar bear 

— not ten feet away, its red eyes shining. On 
my knees I spoke to it, talk to it, as I would to 
a man. It was like a great wild dog, fierce, yet 
kind, and I fed it with the fish which had been 
for Brandy-wine and the rest — but not to kill 
it ! and it did not die. 

“ ‘ That night I lie down in my bag — no, I was 
not afraid ! The bear lie beside me, between me 
and the sled. Ah, it was warm ! Day after day 
we travel together, and camp together at night 

— ah, sweet Sainte Anne, how good it was, my- 
self and the wild beast such friends, alone in the 
north ! But to-day — a little while ago — some- 
thing went wrong with me, and I got sick in the 
head, a swimming like a tide wash in and out. I 
fell down — asleep. When I wake I find you 
here beside me — that is all. The bear must 
have drag me here.’ ” 


Little Babiche 


261 


Pierre stuck a splinter into the fire to light 
another cigarette, and paused as if expecting the 
governor to speak, but no word coming, he con- 
tinued : “ I had my arm around him while we 
talked and come slowly down the hill. Soon he 
stopped and said, ‘This is the place.’ It was a 
cave of ice, and we went in. Nothing was there 
to see except the sled. Babiche stopped short. 
It come to him now that his good comrade was 
gone. He turned, and looked out, and called, 
but there was only the empty night, the ice, and 
the stars. Then he come back, sat down on the 
sled, and the tears fall. ... I lit my spirit- 
lamp, boiled coffee, got pemmican from my bag, 
and I tried to make him eat. No, he would only 
drink the coffee. At last he said to me, ‘ What 
day is this, Pierre ? ’ ‘ It is the day of the Great 
Birth, Babiche,’ I said. He made the sign of 
the cross, and was quiet, so quiet ! but he smile 
to himself, and kept saying in a whisper, ‘ Ma 
p’tite Corinne ! Ma p’tite Corinne ! ’ The 
next day we come on safe, and in a week I was 
back at Fort St. Saviour with Babiche and all 
the mails, and that most wonderful letter of the 
governor’s.” 

“ The letter was to tell a factor that his sick 
child in the hospital at Quebec was well,” the 


262 An Adventurer of the North 

governor responded quietly : “ Who was ‘ Ma 
p’tite Corinne,’ Pierre ? ” 

“His wife — in heaven; and his child — on 
the Chaudi^re, m’sieu’. The child came and 
the mother went on the same day of the Great 
Birth. He has a soft heart — that Babiche ! ” 

“ And the white bear — so strange a thing ! ” 

“ M’sieu’, who can tell? The world is young 
up here. When it was all young, man and beast 
were good comrades, maybe.” 

“ Ah, maybe. What shall be done with Little 
Babiche, Pierre?” 

“ He will never be the same again on the old 
trail, m’sieu’ ! ” 

There was silence for a long time, but at last 
the governor said, musing, almost tenderly, for 
he never had a child : “ Ma p’tite Corinne ! — 

Little Babiche shall live near his child, Pierre. 
I will see to that.” 

Pierre said no word, but got up, took off his 
hat to the governor, and sat down again. 


At Point o’ Bugles 

John York, John York, where art thou gone, 
Johfi York?'" 

“ What ’s that, Pierre ? ” said Sir Duke Law- 
less, starting to his feet and peering round. 

“ Hush ! ” was Pierre’s reply. “ Wait for the 
rest. . . . There ! ” 

“ King of my heart, king of my heart, I am 
out on the trail of thy bugles^ 

Sir Duke was about to speak, but Pierre lifted 
a hand in warning, and then through the still 
night there came the long cry of a bugle, rising, 
falling, strangely clear, echoing and echoing 
again, and dying away. A moment, and the call 
was repeated, with the same effect, and again a 
third time; then all was still, save for the flight 
of birds roused from the desire of night, and the 
long breath of some animal in the woods sinking 
back to sleep. 

Their camp was pitched on the south shore 
of Hudson’s Bay, many leagues to the west of 
Rupert House, not far from the Moose River. 
Looking north was the wide expanse of bay, 
263 


264 An Adventurer of the North 

dotted with sterile islands here and there ; to the 
east were the barren steppes of Labrador, and all 
round them the calm, incisive air of a late Septem- 
ber, when winter begins to shake out his frosty cur- 
tains and hang them on the cornice of the north, 
despite the high protests of the sun. The two 
adventurers had come together after years of 
separation, and Sir Duke had urged Pierre to 
fare away with him to Hudson’s Bay, which he 
had never seen, although he had shares in the 
great Company, left him by his uncle the ad- 
miral. 

They were camped in a hollow, to the right a 
clump of hardy trees, with no great deal of foli- 
age but some stoutness ; to the left a long finger 
of land running out into the water like a wedge, 
the most eastern point of the western shore of 
Hudson’s Bay. It was high and bold, and, 
somehow, had a fine dignity and beauty. From 
it a path led away north to a great log-fort called 
King’s House. 

Lawless saw Pierre half rise and turn his head, 
listening, Presently he too heard the sound — 
the soft crash of crisp grass under the feet. He 
raised himself to a sitting posture and waited. 

Presently a tall figure came out of the dusk 
into the light of their fire, and a long arm waved 
a greeting at them. Both Lawless and Pierre 


At Point o’ Bugles 265 

rose to their feet. The stranger was dressed in 
buckskin, he carried a rifle, and around his 
shoulder was a strong yellow cord, from which 
hung a bugle. 

‘‘How he said, with a nod, and drew near 
the fire, stretching out his hands to the blaze. 

“ How said Lawless and Pierre. 

After a moment Lawless drew from his blanket 
a flask of brandy, and without a word handed it 
over the fire. The fingers of the two men met 
in the flicker of the flames, a sort of bond by fire, 
and the stranger raised the flask. 

“Chin-chin!'^' he said, and drank, breathing a 
long sigh of satisfaction afterwards as he handed 
it back ; but it was Pierre that took it, and 
again fingers touched in the bond of fire. Pierre 
passed the flask to Lawless, who lifted it. 

“ Chin- chin r"* he said, drank, and gave the 
flask to Pierre again, who did as did the others, 
and said “ Chin- chin C' also. 

By that salutation of the east, given in the far 
north. Lawless knew that he had met one who 
had lighted fires where men are many and close 
to the mile as holes in a sieve. 

They all sat down, and tobacco went round, 
the stranger offering his, while the two others, 
with true hospitality, accepted. 

“We heard you over there — it was you?” 


266 An Adventurer of the North 

said Lawless, nodding towards Point o’ Bugles, 
and glancing at the bugle the other carried. 

“Yes, it was me,” was the reply. “Some one 
always does it twice a year: on the 25th Sep- 
tember and the 25th March. I ’ve done it now 
without a break for ten years, until it has got to 
be a sort of religion with me, and the whole 
thing ’s as real as if King George and John York 
were talking. As I tramp to the point or swing 
away back, in summer barefooted, and in winter 
on my snow-shoes, to myself I seem to be John 
York on the trail of the king’s bugles. I ’ve 
thought so much about the whole thing, I ’ve 
read so many of John York’s letters — and how 
many times one of the king’s! — that now I 
scarcely know which is the bare story, and which 
the bits I ’ve dreamed as I ’ve tramped over the 
plains or sat in the quiet at King’s House, spell- 
ing out little by little the man’s life, from the 
cues I found in his journal, in the Company’s 
papers, and in that one letter of the king’s.” 

Pierre’s eyes were now more keen than those 
of Lawless : for years he had known vaguely of 
this legend of Point o’ Bugles. 

“You know it all,” he said. “Begin at the 
beginning : how and when you first heard, how 
you got the real story, and never mind which is 
taken from the papers and which from your own 


At Point o’ Bugles 267 

mind — if it all fits in it is all true, for the lie 
never fits in right with the square truth. If you 
have the footprints and the handprints you can 
tell the whole man ; if you have the horns of a 
deer you know it as if you had killed it, skinned 
it, and potted it.” 

The stranger stretched himself before the fire 
nodding at his hosts as he did so, and then 
began : 

“Well, a word about myself, first,” he said, “so 
you’ll know just where you are. I was full up 
of life in London town and India, and that ’s a 
fact. I’d plenty of friends and little money, and 
my will was n’t equal to the task of keeping out 
of the hands of the Jews. I did n’t know what 
to do, but I had to go somewhere, that was clear. 
Where ? An accident decided it. I came across 
an old journal of my great-grandfather, John 
York — my name’s Dick Adderley — and just as 
if a chain had been put round my leg and I’d 
been jerked over by the tipping of the world, I 
had to come to Hudson’s Bay. John York’s 
journal was a thing to sit up nights to read. It 
came back to England after he’d had his fill of 
Hudson’s Bay and the earth beneath, and had 
gone, as he himself said on the last page of the 
journal, to follow the king’s buglers in ‘the land 
that is far off.’ God and the devil were strong 


268 An Adventurer of the North 

in old John York. I did n’t lose much time 
after I’d read the journal. I went to Hudson’s 
Bay House in London, got a place in the Com- 
pany, by the help of the governor himself, and 
came out. I ’ve learned the rest of the history 
of old John York — the part that never got to 
England ; for here at King’s House there ’s a 
holy tradition that the real John York belongs 
to it and to it alone.” 

Adderley laughed a little. “King-’s House 
guards John York’s memory, and it’s as fresh 
and real here now as though he ’d died yester- 
day, though it ’s forgotten in England, and by 
most who bear his name, and the present Prince 
of Wales maybe never heard of the man who was 
a close friend of the prince regent, the first gen- 
tleman of Europe.” 

“That sounds sweet gossip,” said Lawless 
with a smile; “ we ’re waiting.” 

Adderley continued : “John York was an hon- 
est man, of wholesome sport, jovial, and never 
shirking with the wine, commendable in his 
appetite, of rollicking soul and proud temper, 
and a gay dog altogether — gay, but to be 
trusted, too, for he had a royal heart. In the 
coltish days of the prince regent he was a boon 
comrade, but never did he stoop to flattery, nor 
would he hedge when truth should be spoken, as 


At Point o’ Bugles 269 

ofttimes it was needed with the royal blade, for 
at times he would forget that a prince was yet a 
man, topped with the accident of a crown. 
Never prince had truer friend, and so in his best 
hours he thought, himself, and if he ever was 
just and showed his better part it was to the bold 
country gentleman who never minced praise or 
blame, but said his say and devil take the end of 
it. In truth, the prince was wilful, and once he 
did a thing which might have given a twist to the 
fate of England. Hot for the love of women, 
and with some dash of real romance in him, too 
— else even as a prince he might have had shal- 
lower love and service — he called John York 
one day and said : 

“ ‘To-night at seven. Squire John, you’ll stand 
with me while I put the seal on the Gates of 
Eden ! ’ and, when the other did not guess his 
import, added: ‘Sir Mark Selby is your neigh- 
bour — his daughter’s for my arms to-night. 
You know her, handsome Sally Selby — she’s 
for your prince, for good or ill.’ 

“John York did not understand at first, for he 
could not think the prince had anything in mind 
but some hot escapade of love. When Mistress 
Selby’s name was mentioned his heart stood still, 
for she had been his choice, the dear apple of 
his eye, since she had bloomed towards woman- ^ 


270 An Adventurer of the North 

hood. He had set all his hopes upon her, tar- 
rying till she should have seen some little life 
before he asked her for his wife. He had her 
father’s God-speed to his wooing, for he was a 
man whom all men knew honest and generous as 
the sun, and only choleric with the mean thing. 
She, also, had given him good cause to think 
that he should one day take her to his home, a 
loved and honoured wife. His impulse, when 
her name passed the prince’s lips, was to draw 
his sword, for he would have called an emperor 
to account ; but presently he saw the real mean- 
ing of the speech ; that the prince would marry 
her that night.” 

Here the story-teller paused again, and Pierre 
said softly, inquiringly : 

“You began to speak in your own way, and 
you ’ve come to another way — like going from 
an almanac to the Mass.” 

The other smiled. “ That’s so. I ’ve heard 
it told by old Shearton at King’s House, who 
speaks as if he’d stepped out of Shakespeare, 
and somehow I seem to hear him talking, and 
I tell it as he told it last year to the governor of 
the Company. Besides, I ’ve listened these seven 
years to his style.” 

“ It’s a strange beginning — unwritten history 
of England,” said Sir Duke musingly. 


2/1 


At Point o’ Bugles 

‘‘You shall hear stranger things yet,” an- 
swered Adderley. “John York could hardly 
believe it at first, for the thought of such a thing 
never had place in his mind. Besides, the prince 
knew how he had looked upon the lady, and he 
could not have thought his comrade would come 
in between him and his happiness. Perhaps it 
was the difficulty, adding spice to the affair, that 
sent the prince to the appeal of private marriage 
to win the lady, and John York always held that 
he loved her truly then, the first and only real 
affection of his life. The lady — who can tell 
what won her over from the honest gentleman to 
the faithless prince ? That soul of vanity which 
wraps about the real soul of every woman fell 
down at last before the highest office in the land, 
and the gifted bearer of the office. But the 
noble spirit in her brought him to offer marriage, 
when he might otherwise have offered, say, a 
barony. There is a record of that and more in 
John York’s memoirs which I will tell you, for 
they have settled in my mind like an old song, 
and I learned them long ago. I give you John 
York’s words, written by his own hand : 

“ ‘ I did not think when I beheld thee last, 
dearest flower of the world’s garden, that I should 
see thee bloom in that wide field, rank with the 
sorrows of royal favor. How did my foolish 


272 An Adventurer of the North 

eyes fill with tears when I watched thee, all rose 
and gold in thy cheeks and hair, the light' falling 
on thee through the chapel window, putting thy 
pure palm into my prince’s, swearing thy life 
away, selling the very blossoms of earth’s or- 
chards for the briar beauty of a hidden vine- 
yard ! I saw the flying glories of thy cheeks, 
the halcyon weather of thy smile, the delicate 
lifting of thy bosom, the dear gaiety of thy 
step, and, at that moment, I mourned for thy 
sake that thou wert not the dullest wench in the 
land, for then thou hadst been spared thy miser- 
ies ; thou hadst been saved the torture-boot of 
a lost love and a disacknowledged wifedom. 
Yet I could not hide from me that thou wert 
happy at that great moment when he swore to 
love and cherish thee till death ye parted. Ah, 
George, my prince, my king, how wickedly thou 
didst break thy vows with both of us who loved 
thee well, through good and ill report — for they 
spake evil of thee, George ; aye, the meanest of 
thy subjects spake lightly of their king — when 
with that sweet soul secretly hid away in the far- 
thest corner of thy kingdom, thou soughtst di- 
vorce from thy later Caroline, whom thou, 
unfaithful, didst charge with infidelity. When, 
at last, thou didst turn again to the partner of 
thy youth, thy true wife in the eyes of God, it 


At Point o’ Bugles 273 

was too late. Thou didst promise me that thou 
wouldst never take another wife, never put our 
dear heart away, though she could not — after 
our miserable laws — bear thee princes. Thou 
didst break thy promise, yet she forgave thee, 
and I forgave thee, for well we knew that thou 
wouldst pay a heavy reckoning, and that in the 
hour when thou shouldst cry to us we might not 
come to thee ; that in the days when age and 
sorrow and vast troubles should oppress thee, 
thou wouldst long for the true hearts who loved 
thee for thyself and not for aught thou couldst 
give, or aught that thou wert, save as a man. 

“ ‘ When thou didst proclaim thy purpose to 
take Caroline to wife, I pleaded with thee, I was 
wroth with thee. Thy one plea was succession. 
Succession ! Succession ! What were a hundred 
dynasties beside that precious life, eaten by 
shame and sorrow ? It were easy for others, 
not thy children, to come after thee, to rule as 
well as thee, as must even now be the case, for 
thou hast no lawful child save that one in the 
loneliest corner of thy English vineyard — alack! 
alack ! I warned thee, George ; I pleaded, and 
thou didst drive me out with words ill-suited to 
thy friend who loved thee. 

“ ‘ I did not fear thee ; I would have forced 
thee to thy knees or made thee fight me, had 


2/4 Adventurer of the North 

not some good spirit cried to my heart that thou 
wert her husband, and that we both had loved 
thee. I dared not listen to the brutal thing 
thou hintedst at — that now I might fatten where 
I had hungered. Thou hadst to answer for the 
baseness of that thought to the King of kings, 
when thou wentest forth alone ; no subject, 
courtier, friend, wife or child to do thee service, 
journeying — not en prince, George; no, not 
en prince / but as a naked soul to God. 

“ ‘ Thou saidst to me : “ Get thee gone, 

John York, where I shall no more see thee.” 
And when I returned, “ Wouldst thou have me 
leave thy country, sir?” thou answeredst, “Blow 
thy quarrelsome soul to the stars where my far- 
thest bugle cries!” Then I said : “ I go, sir, till 
thou callest me again — and after: but not till 
thou hast honored the child of thy honest wed- 
lock ; till thou hast secured thy wife to the end 
of her life against all manner of trouble save 
the shame of thy disloyalty.” There was no 
more for me to do, for my deep love itself for- 
bade my staying longer within reach of the noble, 
^ deserted soul. And so I saw the chastened 
glory of her face no more, nor nevermore beheld 
her perfectness.’ ” 

Adderley paused once more, and, after refill- 
ing his pipe in silence, continued : 


At Point o’ Bugles 275 

“ That was the heart of the thing. His soul 
sickened of the rank world, as he called it, and 
he came out to the Hudson’s Bay country, leav- 
ing his estates in care of his nephew, but taking 
many stores and great chests of clothes and a 
shipload of furniture, instruments of music, 
more than a thousand books, some good pic- 
tures, and great stores of wine. Here he came 
and stayed, an officer of the Company, building 
King’s House, and filling it with all the fine 
things he had brought with him, making in this 
far north a little palace in the wilderness. Here 
he lived, his great heart growing greater in this 
wide, sinewy world. King’s House a place of pil- 
grimage for all the Company’s men in the north ; 
a noble gentleman in a sweet exile, loving what 
he could no more, what he did no more, see. 

“ Twice a year he went to that point yonder 
and blew this bugle, no man knew why or where- 
fore, year in and year out, till 1817. Then there 
came a letter to him with great seals, which be- 
gan : ‘John York, John York, where art thou 
gone, John York ?’ Then followed a score of 
sorrowful sentences, full of petulance, too, for it 
was as John York foretold, his prince longed for 
the truQ souls whom he had cast off. But he 
called too late, for the neglected wife died from 
the shock of her prince’s longing message to 


276 An Adventurer of the North 

her, and when, by the same mail, John York 
knew that, he would not go back to England to 
the king. But twice every year he went to yon- 
der point and spoke out the king’s word to him : 
‘John York, John York, where art thou gone, 
John York?’ and gave the words of his own 
letter in reply : ‘ King of my heart, king of 

my heart, I am out on the trail of thy bugles.’ 
To this he added three calls of the bugle, as you 
have heard.” 

Adderley handed the bugle to Lawless, who 
looked at it with deep interest and passed it on 
to Pierre. 

“ When he died,” Adderley continued, “ he 
left the house, the fittings and the stores to the 
officers of the Company who should be sta- 
tioned there, with a sum of money yearly, pro- 
vided that twice in twelve months the bugle 
should be blown as you have heard it, and those 
words called out.” 

“Why did he do that ?” asked Lawless, nod- 
ding towards the point. 

“Why do they swing the censers at the 
Mass ?” interjected Pierre. “Man has signs for 
memories, and one man seeing another’s sign 
will remember his own.” 

“You stay because you like it — at King’s 
House ? ” asked Lawless of Adderley. 


277 


At Point o’ Bugles 

The other stretched himself lazily to the fire 
and, “ I am at home,” he said. “ I have no 
cares. I had all there was of that other world ; 
I ’ve not had enough of this. You ’ll come 
with me to King’s House to-morrow ? ” he 
added. 

To their quick assent he rejoined : “You ’ll 
never want to leave. You ’ll stay on.” 

To this Lawless replied, shaking his head : 
“ I have a wife and child in England.” 

But Pierre did not reply. He lifted the 
bugle, mutely asking a question of Adderley, 
who as mutely replied, and then, with it in his 
hand, left the other two beside the fire. 

A few minutes later they heard, with three 
calls of the bugle from the Point afterwards, 
Pierre’s voice : 

^^John York^ John York, where art thou gone, 
John York ? ” 

Then came the reply : 

King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out 
on the trail of thy bugles ^ 


The Spoil of the Puma 

Just at the point where the Peace River first 
hugs the vast outpost hills of the Rockies, be- 
fore it hurries timorously on, through an unex- 
plored region, to Fort St. John, there stood a 
hut. It faced the west, and was built half-way 
up Clear Mountain. In winter it had snows 
above it and below it ; in summer it had snow 
above it and a very fair stretch of trees and 
grass, while the river flowed on the same winter 
and summer. It was a lonely country. Travel- 
ing north, you would have come to the Turna- 
gain River ; west to the Frying Pan Mountains ; 
south, to a goodly land. But from the hut you 
had no outlook towards the south ; your eye 
came plump against a hard, lofty hill, like a wall 
between heaven and earth. It is strange, too, 
that, when you are in the far north, you do not 
look towards the south until the north turns an 
iron hand upon you and refuses the hospitality 
of food and fire ; your eyes are drawn towards 
the Pole by that charm — deadly and beautiful — 
278 


The Spoil of the Puma 279 

for which men have given up three points of the 
compass, with their pleasures and ease, to seek a 
grave solitude, broken only by the beat of a 
musk-ox’s hoofs, the long breath of the caribou, 
or the wild cry of the puma. 

Sir Duke Lawless had felt this charm, and 
had sworn that one day he would again leave 
his home in Devon and his house in Pont 
Street and, finding Pierre, Shon M’Gann and 
others of his old comrades, together they would 
travel into those austere yet pleasant wilds. He 
kept his word, found Shon M’Gann, and on an 
autumn day of a year not so long ago lounged 
in this hut on Clear Mountain. They had had 
three months of travel and sport, and were filled, 
but not sated, with the joy of the hunter. They 
were very comfortable, for their host, Pourcette, 
the French Canadian, had fire and meat in 
plenty, and, if silent, was attentive to their com- 
fort — a little, black-bearded, grey-headed man, 
with heavy brows over small, vigilant eyes, deft 
with his fingers and an excellent sportsman, as 
could be told from the skins heaped in all the 
corners of the large hut. 

The skins were not those of mere foxes or 
martens or deer, but of mountain lions and 
grizzlies. There were besides many soft, tiger- 
like skins, which Sir Duke did not recognize. 


28 o An Adventurer of the North 

He kept looking at them, and at last went over 
and examined one. 

“ What’s this, Monsieur Pourcette ? ” he said, 
feeling it as it lay on the top of the pile. 

The little man pushed the log on the fire- 
place with his moccasined foot before he re- 
plied: “Of a puma, m’sieu’.” 

Sir Duke smoothed it with his hand. “I 
didn’t know there were pumas here.” 

“Faith, Sir Duke — ” 

Sir Duke Lawless turned on Shon quickly. 
“You’re forgetting again, Shon. There’s no 
‘Sir Dukes’ between us. What you were to me 
years ago on the wallyby-track and the buffalo- 
trail you are now, and I ’m the same also; 
M’Gann and Lawless and no other.” 

“ Well, then. Lawless, it ’s true enough as he 
says it, for I ’ve seen more than wan skin brought 
in, though I niver clapped eye on the beast 
alive. There ’s few men go huntin’ them av 
their own free will, not more than they do griz- 
zlies; but, bedad, this Frinch gentleman has 
either the luck o’ the world, or the gift o’ that 
man ye tould me of that slew the wild boars in 
anciency. Look at that, now: there ’s thirty or 
forty puma-skins, and I ’d take my oath there 
is n’t another man in the country that ’s shot half 
that in his lifetime.” 


28 i 


The Spoil of the Puma 

Pourcette’s eyes were on the skins, not on 
the men, and he did not appear to listen. He 
sat leaning forward, with a strange look on his 
face. Presently he got up, came over, and 
stroked the skins softly. A queer chuckling 
noise came from his throat. 

‘Ht was good sport?” asked Lawless, feeling 
a new interest in him. 

“The grandest sport — but it is not so easy,” 
answered the old man. “The grizzly comes on 
you bold and strong ; you know your danger 
right away, and have it out. So ! But the puma 
comes — God, how the puma comes!” He broke 
off, his eyes burning bright under his bushy 
brows and his body arranging itself into an atti- 
tude of expectation and alertness. 

“You have travelled far. The sun goes down. 
You build a fire and cook your meat, and then 
good tea and the tabac. It is ver’ fine. You 
hear the loon crying on the water, or the last 
whistle of the heron up the pass. The lights in 
the sky come out and shine through a thin mist 
— there is nothing like that mist, it is so fine 
and soft. Allans / You are sleepy. You bless 
the good God. You stretch pine branches, wrap 
in your blanket, and lie down to sleep. If it is 
winter and you have a friend, you lie close. It 
is all quiet. As you sleep, something comes. It 


282 An Adventurer of the North 

slides along the ground on its belly, like a 
snake. It is a pity if you have not ears that feel 
— the whole body as ears. For there is a swift 
lunge, a snarl — ah, you should hear it! the 
thing has you by the throat, and there is an 
end !” 

The old man had acted all the scenes : a side- 
long glance, a little gesture, a movement of the 
body, a quick, harsh breath — without emphatic 
excitement, yet with a reality and force that 
fascinated his two listeners. When he paused, 
Shon let go a long breath, and Lawless looked 
with keen inquiry at their entertainer. This al- 
most unnatural, yet quiet intensity had behind 
it something besides the mere spirit of the 
sportsman. Such exhibitions of feeling generally 
have an unusual personal interest to give them 
point and meaning. 

“Yes, that ’s wonderful, Pourcette,” he said; 
“but that ’s when the puma has things its own 
way. How is it when these come off?” He 
stroked the soft furs under his hand. 

The man laughed, yet without a sound — the 
inward, stealthy laugh, as from a knowledge 
wicked in its very suggestiveness. His eyes ran 
from Lawless to Shon, and back again. He put 
his hand on his mouth, as though for silence, 
stole noiselessly over to the wall, took down his 


The Spoil of the Puma 283 

gun quietly, and turned around. Then he spoke 
softly : 

“To kill the puma, you must watch — always 
watch. You will see his yellow eyes sometimes 
in a tree ; you must be ready before he springs. 
You will hear his breath at night as you pretend 
to sleep, and you wait till you see his foot steal 
out of the shadow — then you have him. From 
a mountain wall you watch in the morning, and, 
when you see him, you follow, and follow, and 
do not rest till you have found him. You must 
never miss fire, for he has great strength and a 
mad tooth. But when you have got him, he is 
worth all. You cannot eat the grizzly — he is 
too thick and coarse ; but the puma — well, you 
had him for the pot to-night. Was he not good ? ” 

Lawless’s brows ran up in surprise. Shon 
spoke quickly : 

“Heaven above!” he burst out. “Was it 
puma we had betune the teeth ? And what ’s 
puma but an almighty cat ? Sure, though, it 
wint as tender as pullets, for all that, but I wish 
you had n’t tould us.” 

The old man stood leaning on his gun, 
his chin on his hands as they covered the 
muzzle, his eyes fixed on something in his 
memory, the vision of incidents he had lived or 


seen. 


284 An Adventurer of the North 

Lawless went over to the fire and relit his 
pipe. Shon followed him. They both watched 
Pourcette. 

“D’ ye think he ’s mad ?” asked Shon in a 
whisper. 

Lawless shook his head. “ Mad ? No ! But 
there ’s more in his puma-hunting than appears. 
How long has he lived here, did he say ? ” 

“ Four years, and durin’ that time yours and 
mine are the only white faces he has seen, except 
one.” 

“ Except one. Well, whose was the one ? 
That might be interesting. Maybe there ’s a 
story in that.” “ Faith, Lawless, there ’s a 
story worth the hearin,’ I ’m thinkin’, to every 
white man in this country. For the three years 
I was in the mounted police I could count a 
story for all the days o’ the calendar, and not all 
o’ them would make you happy to hear.” 

Pourcette turned round to them. He seemed 
to be listening to Shon’s words. Going to the 
wall he hung up the rifle, then he came to the 
fire and stood holding out his hands to the blaze. 
He did not look in the least mad, but like a man 
who was dominated by some one thought, more 
or less weird. Short and slight, and a little 
bent, but more from habit — the habit of listen- 
ing ‘and watching — than from age, his face had 


The Spoil of the Puma 285 

a stern kind of earnestness and loneliness, and 
nothing at all of insanity. 

Presently Lawless went to a corner, and from 
his kit drew forth a flask. The old man saw, and 
immediately brought out a wooden cup. There 
were two on the shelf, and Shon pointed to the 
other. Pourcette took no notice. Shon went 
over to get it, but Pourcette laid a hand on his 
arm : “ Not that !” 

“For ornamint!” said Shon, laughing, and 
then his eyes were arrested by a suit of buckskin 
and a cap of beaver, hanging on the wall. He 
turned them over, and then suddenly drew back 
his hand, for he saw in the back of the jacket a 
knife-slit. There was blood also on the buck- 
skin. 

“ Holy Mary ! ” he said, and retreated. 
Lawless had not noticed ; he was pouring out 
the liquor. He had handed the cup first to 
Pourcette, who raised it towards a gun hung 
above the fireplace, and said something under 
his breath. 

“A dramatic little fellow! ” thought Lawless ; 
“The spirit of his forefathers — a good deal of 
heart, a little of the poseur." 

Then hearing Shon’s exclamation, he turned. 

“ It ’s an ugly sight,” said Shon, pointing to 
the jacket. They both looked at Pourcette, ex- 


286 An Adventurer of the North 

pecting him to speak. The old man reached to 
the coat, and, turning it so that the cut and the 
blood were hid, ran his hand down it caressingly. 

“Ah, poor Jo! poor Jo Gordineer 1 ” he 
said ; then he came over once more to the fire, 
sat down, and held out his hands to the fire, 
shaking his head. 

“ For God’s sake. Lawless, give me a drink 1” 
said Shon. Their eyes met, and there was the 
same look in the faces of both. When Shon had 
drank, he said : “ So, that’s what ’s come to our 
old friend, Jo — dead — killed or murdered — ” 

“ Do n’t speak so loud! ” said Lawless. “ Let 
us get the story from him first.” 

Years before, when Shon M’Gann and Pierre 
and Lawless had sojourned in the Pipi Valley, 
Jo Gordineer had been with them, as stupid 
and true a man as ever drew in his buckle in a 
hungry land, or let it out to much corn and oil. 
When Lawless returned to find Shon and others 
of his companions, he had asked for Gordineer. 
But not Shon nor any one else could tell aught 
of him ; he had wandered north to outlying 
goldfields, and then had disappeared completely. 
But there, as it would seem, his coat and cap 
hung, and his rifle, dust covered, kept guard 
over the fire. 

Shon went over to the coat, did as Pourcette 


The Spoil of the Puma 287 

had done, and said : “ Is it gone y’ are, Jo, wid 
your slow tongue and your big heart ? Wan by 
wan the lads are off.” 

Pourcette, without any warning, began speak- 
ing, but in a very quiet tone at first, as if 
unconscious of the others : 

“ Poor Jo Gordineer ! Yes, he is gone. He 
was my friend — so tall, and such a hunter. We 
were at the Ding-Dong goldfields together. 
When luck went bad, I said to him : ‘ Come, we 
will go where there is plenty of wild meat, and a 
summer more beautiful than in the south.’ I 
did not want to part from him, for once, when 
some miner stole my claim, and I fought, he 
stood by me. But in some things he was a little 
child. That was from his big heart. Well, he 
would go, he said ; and we come away.” 

He suddenly became silent ; and shook his 
head, and spoke under his breath. 

“Yes,” said Lawless quietly, “you went 
away. What then ? ” 

He looked up quickly, as though just aware 
of their presence, and continued : 

“Well, the other followed, as I said, and — ” 

“No, Pourcette,” interposed Lawless, “you 
didn't say. Who was the other that followed ?” 

The old man looked at him gravely, and a 
little severely, and continued : 


288 An Adventurer of the North 

“As I said, Gawdor followed — he and an 
Indian. Gawdor thought we were going for 
gold, because I had said I knew a place in the 
north where there was gold in a river — I know 
the place, but that is no matter. We did not go 
for gold just then. Gawdor hated Jo Gordi- 
neer. There was a half-breed girl. She was 
fine to look at. She would have gone to Gor- 
dineer if he had beckoned, any time ; but he 
waited — he was very slow, except with his finger 
on a gun ; he waited too long. Gawdor was 
mad for the girl. He knew why her feet came 
slow to the door when he knocked. He would 
have quarrelled with Jo, if he had dared ; Gordi- 
neer was too quick a shot. He would have 
killed him from behind ; but it was known in 
the camp that he was no friend of Gordineer, 
and it was not safe.” 

Again Pourcette was silent. Lawless put on 
his knee a new pipe filled with tobacco. The 
little man took it, lighted it, and smoked on in 
silence for a time undisturbed. Shon broke the 
silence, by a whisper to Lawless : 

“Jo was a quiet man, as patient as a priest ; 
but when his blood came up, there was trouble in 
the land. Do you remimber whin — ” 

Lawless interrupted him and motioned towards 
Pourcette. The old man, after a few puffs, held 


The Spoil of the Puma 289 

the pipe on his knee, disregarding it. Lawless 
silently offered him some more whisky, but he 
shook his head. Presently he again took up the 
thread : 

BieUy we travelled slow up through the 
Smoky River country, and beyond into a wild 
land. We had bully sport as we went. Some- 
times I heard shots far away behind us ; but 
Gordineer said it was my guess, for we saw 
nobody. But I had a feeling. Never mind. 
At last we came to the Peace River. It was in 
the early autumn like this, when the land is full 
of comfort. What is there like it ? Nothing. 
The mountains have colours like a girl’s eyes ; 
the smell of the trees is sweet like a child’s 
breath, and the grass feels for the foot and lifts 
it with a little soft spring. We said we could 
live here forever. We built this house high up, 
as you see, first, because it is good to live high 
— it puts life in the blood; and, as Gordineer 
said, it is noble to look far over the world, every 
time your house door is open, or the parchment 
is down from the window. We killed wapiti and 
caribou without number, and cached them for 
our food. We caught fish in the river, and made 
tea out of the brown berry — it is very good. We 
had flour, a little, which we had brought with us, 
and I went to Fort St. John and got more. Since 


290 An Adventurer of the North 

then, down in the valley, I have wheat every 
summer ; for the Chinook winds blow across the 
mountains and soften the bitter cold. 

“Well, for that journey to Fort St. John. 
When I got back I found Gawdor with Gordin- 
eer. He said he had come north to hunt. His 
Indian had left, and he had lost his way. 
Gordineer believed him. He never lied him- 
self. I said nothing, but watched. After a time 
he asked where the goldfield was. I told him, 
and he started away — it was about fifty miles to 
the north. He went, and on his way back he 
come here. He say he could not find the 
place, and was going south. I knew he lied. 
At this time I saw that Gordineer was changed. 
He was slow in the head, and so, when he began 
thinking up here, it made him lonely. It is 
always in a fine land like this, where game is 
plenty, and the heart dances for joy in your 
throat, and you sit by the fire — that you think 
of some woman who would be glad to draw in 
and tie the strings of the tent curtain, or fasten 
the latch of the door upon you two alone.” 

Perhaps some memory stirred within the old 
man other than that of his dead comrade, for 
he sighed, mufiled his mouth in his beard, and 
then smiled in a distant way at the fire. The 
pure truth of what he said came home to Shon 


291 


The Spoil of the Puma 

M’Gann and Sir Duke Lawless; for both, in 
days gone by, had sat at campfires in silent 
plains and thought upon women from whom 
they believed they were parted forever, yet who 
were only kept from them for a time, to give 
them happier days. They were thinking of 
these two women now. They scarcely knew 
how long they sat there thinking. Time passes 
swiftly when thoughts are cheerful, or are tinged 
with the soft melancholy of a brief separation. 

At last the old man continued: “I saw the 
thing grew on him. He was not sulky, but he 
stare much in the fire at night. In the daytime 
he was differen’. A hunter thinks only of his 
sport. Gawdor watched him. Gordineer’s 
hand was steady; his nerve was all right. I 
I have seen him stand still till a grizzly come 
within twice the length of his gun. Then he 
would twist his mouth, and fire into the mortal 
spot. Once we were out in the Wide Wing 
pass. We had never had such a day. Gordineer 
make grand shots, better than my own; and 
men have said I can shoot like the devil — ha! 
ha!” He chuckled to himself noiselessly, and 
said in a whisper : “Twenty grizzlies, and fifty 
pumas ! ” 

Then he rubbed his hands softly on his 
knees, and spoke aloud again : “A:/, I was proud 


292 An Adventurer of the North 

of him. We were standing together on a ledge 
of rock. Gawdor was not far away. Gawdor 
was a poor hunter, and I knew he was wild at 
Gordineer’s great luck. ... A splendid bull- 
wapiti come out on a rock across the gully. It 
was a long shot. I did not think Gordineer 
could make it; I was not sure that I could — 
the wind was blowing and the range was long. 
But he draw up his gun like lightning, and 
fire all at once. The bull dropped clean over 
the cliff, and tumbled dead upon the rocks 
below. It was fine. But, then, Gordineer slung 
his gun under his arm and say: ‘That is 
enough. I am going to the hut.^ 

“ He went away. That night he did not talk. 
The next morning, when I say, ‘ We will be off 
again to the pass,’ he shake his head. He would 
not go. He would shoot no more, he said. I 
understood: it was a girl. He was wide awake 
at last. Gawdor understanded also. He know 
that Gordineer would go to the south — to her. 
I was sorry; but it was no use. Gawdor went 
with me to the pass. When we came back, Jo 
was gone. On a bit of birch-bark he had put 
where he was going, and the way he would take. 
He said he would come back to me — ah, the 
brave comrade! Gawdor say nothing, but his 
looks were black. I had a feeling. I sat up all 


293 


The Spoil of the Puma 

night smoking. I was not afraid, but I know 
Gawdor had found the valley of gold, and he 
might put a knife in me, because to know of such 
a thing alone is fine. Just at dawn he got up and 
go out. He did not come back. I waited, and 
at last went to the pass. In the afternoon, just 
as I was rounding the corner of a cliff, there was 
a shot — then another. The first went by my 
head; the second caught me along the ribs, but 
not to great hurt. Still, I fell from the shock, 
and lost some blood. It was Gawdor; he 
thought he had killed me. 

“ When I come to myself I bound up the lit- 
tle furrow in the flesh and start away. I know 
that Gawdor would follow Gordineer. I follow 
him, knowing the way he must take. I have 
never forget the next night. I had to travel 
hard, and I track him by his fires and other 
things. When sunset come, I do not stop. I 
was in a valley and I push on. There was a 
little moon. At last I saw a light ahead — a 
campfire, I know. I was weak, and could have 
dropped; but a dread was on me. I come to the 
fire. I saw a man lying near it. Just as I saw 
him he was trying to rise. But, as he did so, 
something sprang out of the shadow upon him, 
at his throat. I saw him raise his hand and 
strike it with a knife. The thing let go, and 


294 An Adventurer of the North 

then I fire — but only scratched, I think. It was 
a puma. It sprang away again, into the dark- 
ness. I ran to the man and raised him. It was 
my friend. He looked up at me and shake his 
head. He was torn at the throat. But there was 
something else — a wound in the back. He was 
stooping over the fire when he was stabbed, and 
he fell. He saw that it was Gawdor. He had 
been left for dead, as I was. Dear Lord, just 
when I come and could have save him, the puma 
come also. It is the best men who have such 
luck. I have seen it often. I used to wonder 
they did not curse God.” 

He crossed himself and mumbled some- 
thing. Lawless rose, and walked up and down 
the room once or twice, pulling at his beard 
and frowning. His eyes were wet. Shon kept 
blowing into his closed hands and blinking at 
the fire. Pourcette got up and took down the 
gun from the chimney. He brushed off the 
dust with his coat-sleeve, and fondled it, shaking 
his head at it a little. As he began to speak 
again. Lawless sat down. 

“Now I know why they do not curse. 
Something curses for them. Jo gave me a word 
for her, and say: ‘Well, it is all right; but I 
wish I had killed the puma.’ There was noth- 


The Spoil of the Puma 295 

ing more. ... I followed Gawdor for 
days. I know that he would go and get some 
one, and go back to the gold. I thought at 
last I had missed him ; but no. I had made 
up my mind what to do when I found him. 
One night, just as the moon was showing over 
the hills, I come upon him. I was quiet as a 
puma. I have a stout cord in my pocket, and 
another about my body. Just as he was stoop- 
ing over the fire, as Gordineer did, I sprang 
upon him, clasping him about the neck, and 
bringing him to the ground. He could not 
get me off. I am small, but I have a grip. 
Then, too, I had one hand at his throat. It 
was no use to struggle. The cord and a knife 
were in my teeth. It was a great trick, but 
his breath was well gone, and I fastened his 
hands. It was no use to struggle. I tied his 
feet and legs. Then I carried him to a tree 
and bound him tight. I unfastened his hands 
again and tied them round the tree. Then I 
built a great fire not far away. He begged at 
first and cried. But I was hard. He got wild, 
and at last when I leave him he cursed ! It 
was like nothing I ever heard. He was a 
devil. ... I come back after I have carry 
the message to the poor girl — it is a sad thing 


296 An Adventurer of the North 

to see the first great grief of the young ! Gaw‘ 
dor was not there. The pumas and others had 
been with him. 

‘‘ There was more to do. I wanted to kill 
that puma which set its teeth in the throat of 
my friend. I hunted the woods where it had 
happened, beating everywhere, thinking that, 
perhaps, it was dead. There was not much 
blood on the leaves, so I guessed that it had 
not died. I hunted from that spot, and killed 
many — many. I saw that they began to move 
north. At last I got back here. From here 
I have hunted and killed them slow ; but 
never that one with a wound in the shoulder 
from Jo’s knife. Still, I can wait. There is 
nothing like patience for the hunter and for 
the man who would have blood for blood.” 

He paused, and Lawless spoke : “ And when 
you have killed that puma, Pourcette, if you ever 
do, what then ? ” 

Pourcette fondled the gun, then rose and 
hung it up again before he replied. 

“Then I will go to Fort St. John, to the girl 
— she is there with her father — and sell all the 
skins to the factor and give her the money.” He 
waved his hand round the room. “ There are 
many skins here, but I have more cached not 
far away. Once a year I go to the Fort for flour 


I 


The Spoil of the Puma 297 

and bullets. A dog team and a bois-brule bring 
them, and then I am alone as before. When all 
that is done I will come back.” 

“ And then, Pourcette ? ” said Shon. 

“Then I will hang that one skin over the 
chimney where his gun is, and go out and kill 
more pumas. What else can one do ? When I 
stop killing I shall be killed. A million pumas 
and their skins are not worth the life of my 
friend.” 

Lawless looked round the room, at the 
wooden cup, the gun, the bloodstained clothes 
on the wall and the skins. He got up, came 
over and touched Pourcette on the shoulder. 

“ Little man,” he said, “ give it up and come 
with me. Come to Fort St. John, sell the skins, 
give the money to the girl, and then let us 
travel to the Barren Grounds together, and from 
there to the south country again. You will go 
mad up here. You have killed enough — Gawdor 
and many pumas. If Jo could speak, he would 
say. Give it up! I knew Jo. He was my good 
friend before he was yours — mine and McGann’s 
here — and we searched for him to travel with us. 
He would have done so, I think, for we had 
sport and trouble of one kind and another to- 
gether. And he would have asked you to come 
also. Well, do so, little man. We have n’t told 


298 An Adventurer of the North 

you our names. I am Sir Duke Lawless, and this 
is Shon M’Gann.” 

Pourcette nodded. “ I do not know how it 
come to me, but I was sure from the first you are 
friends. He speak often of you and of two 
others — where are they ? ” 

Lawless replied, and, at the name of Pretty 
Pierre, Shon hid his forehead in his hand in a 
troubled way. 

“ And you will come with us,” said Lawless, 
“away from this loneliness ?” 

“It is not lonely,” was the reply. “To hear 
the thrum of the pigeon, the whistle of the hawk, 
the chatter of the black squirrel, and the long 
cry of the eagles is not lonely. Then there is 
the river and the pines — all music ; and for 
what the eye sees, God has been good ; and to 
kill pumas is my joy. . . . So, I cannot go. 

These hills are mine. Few strangers come, and 
none stop but me. Still, tomorrow or any day, 
I will show you the way to the valley where the 
gold is. Perhaps riches is there, perhaps not, 
you shall find.” 

Lawless saw that it was no use to press the 
matter. The old man had but one idea, and 
nothing could ever change it. Solitude fixes 
our hearts immovably on things — call it mad- 
ness, what you will. In busy life we have no 


299 


The Spoil of the Puma 

real or lasting dreams, no ideals. We have to 
go to the primeval hills and the wild plains for 
them. When we leave the hills and the plains, 
we lose them again. Shon was, however, for the 
valley of gold. He was a poor man, and it 
would be a joyful thing for him if one day he 
could empty ample gold into his wife’s lap. 
Lawless was not greedy, but he and good gold 
were not at variance. 

“See,” said Shon, “the valley’s the thing. 
We can hunt as we go, and if there ’s gold for 
the scrapin’, why there y’ are — fill up and come 
again. If not, divil the harm done. So here ’s 
thumbs up to go, say I. But I wish. Lawless, I 
wish that I ’d niver known how Jo wint off, an’ I 
wish we were all t’gither agin, as down in the 
Pipi Valley.” 

“There ’s nothing stands in this world, Shon, 
but the faith of comrades and the truth of good 
women. The rest hangs by a hair. I ’ll go to 
the valley with you. It ’s many a day since I 
washed my luck in a gold-pan.” 

“ I will take you there,” said Pourcette, sud- 
denly rising and, with shy abrupt motions, 
grasping their hands and immediately letting 
them go again. “I will take you tomorrow.” 
Then he spread skins upon the floor, put wood 
upon the fire, and the three were soon asleep. 


300 An Adventurer of the North 

The next morning, just as the sun came 
laboriously over the white peak of a mountain 
and looked down into the great gulch beneath 
the hut, the three started. For many hours they 
crept along the side of the mountain, then came 
slowly down upon pine-crested hills, and over to 
where a small plain stretched out. It was Pour- 
cette’s little farm. Its position was such that it 
caught the sun always, and was protected from 
the north and east winds. Tall shafts of Indian 
corn with the yellow tassels were still standing, 
and the stubble of the field where the sickle had 
been showed in the distance like a carpet of 
gold. It seemed strange to Lawless that this 
old man beside him should be thus peaceful in 
his habits, the most primitive and arcadian of 
farmers, and yet one whose trade was blood — 
whose one purpose in life was destruction and 
vengeance. 

They pushed on. Towards the end of the day 
they came upon a little herd of caribou, and had 
excellent sport. Lawless noticed that Pourcette 
seemed scarcely to take any aim at all, so swift 
and decisive was his handling of the gun. They 
skinned the deer and cached them, and took up 
the journey again. For four days they travelled 
and hunted alternately. Pourcette had shot 
two mountain lions, but they had seen no pumas. 


301 


The Spoil of the Puma 

On the morning of the fifth day they came 
upon the valley where the gold was. There 
was no doubt about it. A beautiful little stream 
ran through it, and its bed was sprinkled with 
gold — a goodly sight to a poor man like Shon, 
interesting enough to Lawless. For days, while 
Lawless and Pourcette hunted, Shon labored 
like a galley-slave, making the little specks into 
piles, and now and again crowning a pile with a 
nugget. The fever of the hunter had passed 
from him and another fever was on him. The 
others urged him to come away. The winter 
would soon be hard on them ; he must go, and 
he and Lawless would return in the spring. 

Prevailing on him at last, they started back to 
Clear Mountain. The first day Shon was ab- 
stracted. He carried the gold he had gathered 
in a bag wound about his body. It was heavy, 
and he could not travel fast. One morning, 
Pourcette, who had been off in the hills, came 
to say that he had sighted a little herd of 
wapiti. Shon had fallen and sprained his arm 
the evening before (gold is heavy to carry), and 
he did not go with the others. He stayed and 
dreamed of his good fortune, and of his home. 
In the late afternoon he lay down in the sun 
beside the campfire, and fell asleep from much 
thinking. Lawless and Pourcette had little sue- 


302 An Adventurer of the North 

cess. The herd had gone before they arrived. 
They beat the hills, and turned back to camp at 
last, without fret, like good sportsmen. At a 
point they separated, to come down upon the 
camp at different angles, in the hope of still 
getting a shot. The camp lay exposed upon a 
platform of the mountain. 

Lawless came out upon a ledge of rock op- 
posite the camp, a gulch lying between. He 
looked across. He was in the shadow, the other 
wall of the gulch was in the sun. The air was 
incomparably clear and fresh, with an autumnal 
freshness. Everything stood out distinct and 
sharply outlined, nothing flat or blurred. He 
saw the camp, and the fire, with the smoke 
quivering up in a diffusing blue column, Shon 
lying beside it. He leaned upon his rifle mus- 
ingly. The shadows of the pines were blue and 
cold, but the tops of them were burnished with 
the cordial sun, and a glacier-field, somehow, 
took on a rose and violet light reflected, maybe, 
from the soft-complexioned sky. He drew in a 
long breath of delight, and widened his line 
of vision. 

Suddenly, something he saw made him lurch 
backward. At an angle in almost equal distance 
from him and Shon, upon a small peninsula of 
rock, a strange thing was happening. Old 


303 


The Spoil of the Puma 

Pourcette was kneeling, engaged with his mocca- 
sin. Behind him was the sun, against which he 
was abruptly defined, looked larger than usual. 
Clear space and air soft with color were about 
him. Across this space, on a little sloping pla- 
teau near him, there crept an animal. It 
seemed to Lawless that he could see the lithe 
stealthiness of its muscles and the ripple of its 
skin. But that was imagination, because he was 
too far away. He cried out and swung his gun 
shoulderward in desperation. But, at the mo- 
ment, Pourcette turned sharply round, saw his 
danger, caught his gun, and fired as the puma 
sprang. There had been no chance for aim, 
and the beast was only wounded. It dropped 
upon the man. He let the gun fall ; it rolled 
and fell over the cliff. Then came a scene, 
wicked in its peril to Pourcette, for whom no 
aid could come, though two men stood watching 
the great fight — Shon M’Gann, awake now, and 
Lawless — with their guns silent in their hands. 
They dare not fire for fear of injuring the man, 
and they could not reach him in time to be of 
help. 

There against the weird, solitary sky the man 
and the puma fought. When the animal dropped 
on him, Pourcette caught it by the throat with 
both hands and held back its fangs; but its 


304 


An Adventurer of the North 


claws were furrowing the flesh of his breast and 
legs. His long arms were of immense strength, 
and though the pain of his torn flesh was great, 
he struggled grandly with the beast, and bore it 
away from his body. As he did so he slightly 
changed the position of one hand. It came 
upon a welt — a scar. When he felt that, new 
courage and strength seemed given him. He 
gave a low growl like an animal, and then, let- 
ting go one hand, caught at the knife in his belt. 
As he did so the puma sprang away from him, 
and crouched upon the rock, making ready for 
another leap. Lawless and Shon could see its 
tail curving and beating. But now, to their as- 
tonishment, the man was the aggressor. He was 
filled with a fury which knows nothing of fear. 
The welt his fingers had felt burned them. 

He came slowly upon the puma. Lawless 
could see the hard glitter of his knife. The 
puma’s teeth sawed together, its claws picked at 
the rocks, its body curved for a spring. The 
man sprang first, and ran the knife in ; but not 
into a mortal corner. Once more they locked. 
The man’s fingers were again at the puma’s 
throat, and they swayed together, the claws of 
the beast making surface havoc. But now as 
they stood up, to the eyes of the fearful watchers 
inextricably mixed, the man lunged again with 


305 


The Spoil of the Puma 

his knife, and this time straight into the heart of 
the murderer. The puma loosened, quivered, 
fell back dead. The man rose to his feet with a 
cry, and his hands stretched above his head, as it 
were in a kind of ecstasy. Shon forgot his gold 
and ran ; Lawless hurried also. 

When the two men got to the spot they found 
Pourcette binding up his wounds. He came to 
his feet, heedless of his hurts, and grasped their 
hands. ** Come, come, my friends, and see!” he 
cried. 

He pulled forward the loose skin on the 
puma’s breast and showed them the scar of a 
knife-wound above the one his own knife had 
made. 

‘T’ve got the other murderer,” he said; 
“Gordineer’s knife went in here. God, but it is 
good! ” 

Pourcette’s flesh needed little medicine ; he 
did not feel his pain and stiffness. When they 
reached Clear Mountain, bringing with them the 
skin which was to hang above the fireplace, 
Pourcette prepared to go to Fort St. John, as he 
had said he would, to sell all the skins and give 
the proceeds to the girl. 

“When that’s done,” said Lawless, “you will 
have no reason for staying here. If you will 
come with us after, we will go to the Fort with 


3o 6 An Adventurer of the North 

you. We three will then come back in the 
spring to the valley of gold for sport and 
riches.” 

He spoke lightly, yet seriously too. The old 
man shook his head. “ I have thought,” he said. 
‘T cannot go to the south. I am a hunter now, 
nothing more. I have been long alone; I do 
not wish for change. I shall stay at Clear 
Mountain when these skins have gone to Fort 
St. John, and if you come to me in the spring or 
at any time, my door will open to you, and I 
will share all with you. Gordineer was a good 
man. You are good men. I’ll remember you, 
but I can’t go with you. No! Some day you 
would leave me to go to the women who wait for 
you, and then I should be alone again. I will 
not change — vraiment / ’ ’ 

On the morning they left he took Jo Gor- 
dineer’s cup from the shelf, and from a hidden 
place brought out a flask half-filled with liquor. 
He poured out a little in the cup gravely, and 
handed it to Lawless, but Lawless gave it back 
to him. 

“You must drink from it,” he said, “not me.” 

He held out the cup of his own flask. When 
each of the three had a share, the old man 
raised his long arm solemnly, and said in a tone 
so gentle that the others hardly recognized his 


The Spoil of the Puma 307 

voice: ‘‘To a lost comrade!” They drank in 
silence. 

“A little gentleman!” said Lawless, under 
his breath. 

When they were ready to start, Lawless said 
to him at the last: “What will you do here, 
comrade, as the days go on?” 

“There are pumas in the mountains,” he 
replied. 

They parted from him upon the ledge where 
the great fight had occurred, and travelled into 
the east. Turning many times, they saw him 
still standing there. At a point where they must 
lose sight of him, they looked for the last time. 
He was alone with his solitary hills, leaning on 
his rifle. They fired two shots into the air. 
They saw him raise his rifle, and two faint re- 
ports came in reply. He became again immov- 
able, as much a part of those hills as the shining 
glacier; never to leave them. 

In silence the two rounded the cliff, and saw 
him no more. 


y 


The Trail of the Sun Dogs 

“Well, you see,” said Jacques Parfaite, as he 
gave Whiskey Wine, the leading dog, a cut with 
the whip and twisted his patois to the uses of 
narrative, “he has been alone there at the old 
Fort for a long time. I remember when I first 
saw him. It was in the summer. The world 
smelt sweet if you looked this way or that. If 
you drew in your breath quick from the top of a 
hill you felt a great man. Ridley, the chief 
trader, and myself had come to the Fort on our 
way to the Mackenzie River. In the yard of the 
Fort the grass had grown tall, and had sprung 
in the cracks under the doors and windows; the 
Fort had not been used for a long time. Once 
there was plenty of buffalo near, and the caribou 
sometimes; but they were all gone — only a few. 
The Indians never went that way, only when the 
seasons were the best. The Company had closed 
the Post; it did not pay. Still, it was pleasant 
after a long tramp to come to a fort, even empty. 
We know dam’ well there is food buried in the 
yard or under the floor, and it would be droll 
308 


The Trail of the Sun Dogs 309 

to open the place for a day — Lost Man’s 
Tavern, we called it. Well — ” 

“Well, what?” said Sir Duke Lawless, who 
had travelled up to the Barren Grounds for the 
sake of adventure and game ; and, with his old 
friend, Shon M’Gann, had trusted himself to the 
excellent care of Jacques Parfaite, the half-breed. 

Jacques cocked his head on one side and 
shook it wisely and mysteriously. “ Tres Men, 
we trailed through the long grass, pried open 
the shutters and door, and went in. It is cool 
in the north of an evening, as you know. We 
build a fire, and soon there is very fine times. 
Ridley pried up the floor, and we found good 
things. Holy ! but it was a feast. We had a 
little rum also. As we talk and a great laugh 
swim round, there come a noise behind us like 
shuffling feet. We got to our legs quick. Mon 
Dieu, a strange sight ! A man stand looking at 
us with something in his face that make my 
fingers cold all at once — a look — well, you 
would think it was carved in stone — it never 
changed. Once I was at Fort Garry; the Church 
of Ste. Mary is there. They have a picture in it 
of the great scoundrel Judas as he went to hang 
himself. Judas was a fool — what was thirty dol- 
lars ! — you give me hunder’ to take you to the 
Barren Grounds. Pah ! ’ 


310 An Adventurer of the North 

The half-breed chuckled, shook his head 
sagely, swore half-way through his vocabulary at 
Whiskey Wine, gratefully received a pipe of to- 
bacco from Shon M’Gann, and continued : “ He 
come in on us slow and still, and push out his 
long thin hands, the fingers bent like claws, 
towards the pot. He was starving. Yes, it was 
so ; but I nearly laughed. It was spring — a 
man is a fool to starve in the spring. But he 
was differen’. There was a cause. The factor 
give him soup from the pot and a little rum. 
He was mad for meat, but that would have killed 
him. He did not look at you like a man. When 
you are starving you are an animal. But there 
was something more with this. He made the 
flesh creep, he was so thin, and strange, and 
sulky — eh, is that a word when the face looks 
dark and never smiles? So! He would not talk. 
When we ask him where he come from he points 
to the north ; when we ask him where he is go- 
ing, he shake his head as he not know. A man 
is mad not to know where he travel to up here ; 
something comes quick to him unless, and it is 
not good to die too soon. The trader said, 
‘Come with us.’ He shake his head. No. ‘ P’r’aps 
you want to stay here,’ said Ridley loud, show- 
ing his teeth all in a minute. He nod. Then 
the trader laugh thick in his throat and give him 


The Trail of the Sun Dogs 31 1 

more soup. After, he try to make the man talk, 
but he was stubborn like that dirty Whiskey 
Wine — ah, sacre bleuP' 

Whiskey Wine had his usual portion of whip 
and anathema before Jacques again took up the 
thread. “It was no use. He would not talk. 
When the trader got angry once more, he turned 
to me, and the look in his face make me sorry. 
I swore — Ridley did not mind that, I was thick 
friends with him. I say, ‘Keep still. It is no 
good. He has had bad times. He has been lost, 
and seen mad things. He will never be again 
like when God make him.’ Very well, I spoke 
true. He was like a sun dog.” 

“ What ’sthat ye say, Parfaite ? ” said Shon — 
“ a sun dog ?” 

Sir Duke Lawless, puzzled, listened eagerly 
for the reply. 

The half-breed in delight ran before them, 
cracking his whip and jingling the bells at his 
knees. “ Ah, that’s it. It is a name we have for 
some. You do not know ? It is easy. In the 
high-up country” — pointing north — “you see 
sometimes many suns. But it is not many after 
all ; it is only one ; and the rest are the same as 
your face in looking-glasses — one, two, three, 
plenty. You see ?” 


312 An Adventurer of the North 

“Yes,” said Sir Duke, “reflections of the 
real sun.” 

Parfaite tapped him on the arm. “ So : you 
have the thing. Well, this man is not himself — 
he have left himself where he seen his bad times. 
It makes your flesh creep sometimes when you 
see the sun dogs in the sky — this man did the 
same. You shall see him tonight ! ” 

Sir Duke looked at the little half-breed, and 
wondered that the product of so crude a civiliza- 
tion should be so little crude in his imagination. 
“ What happened ? ” he asked. 

“ Nothing happened. But the man could not 
sleep. He sit before the fire, his eyes moving 
here and there, and sometimes he shiver. Well, 
I watch him. In the morning we leave him 
there, and he has been there ever since — the 
only man at the Fort. The Indians do not go; 
they fear him ; but there is no harm in him. He 
is old now. In an hour we ’ll be there.” 

The sun was hanging, with one shoulder up 
like a great, red, peering dwarf, on the far side of 
a long hillock of stunted pines, when the three 
arrived at the Fort. The yard was still as Par- 
faite had described it — full of rank grass, 
through which one path trailed to the open door. 
On the stockade walls grass grew, as though 
where men will not live like men Nature labors 


The Trail of the Sun Dogs 313 

to smother. The shutters of the window were 
not open ; light only entered through narrow 
openings in them, made for the needs of possible 
attacks by Indians in the far past. One would 
have sworn that any one dwelling there was more 
like the dead than living. Yet it had, too, some- 
thing of the peace of the lonely graveyard. There 
was no one in the Fort ; but there were signs of life 
— skins piled here and there, a few utensils, a 
bench, a hammock for food swung from the 
rafters, a low fire burning in the chimney, and a 
rude spear stretched on the wall. 

Sure, the place gives you shivers ! ” said 
Shon. “ Open go these windows. Put wood 
on the fire, Parfaite ; cook the meat that we ’ve 
brought, and no other, me boy ; and whin we ’re 
filled wid a meal and the love o’ God, bring in 
your Lost Man, or Sun Dog, or whativer ’s he by 
name or nature.” 

While Parfaite and Shon busied themselves. 
Lawless wandered out with his gun, and, drawn 
on by the clear joyous air of the evening, walked 
along a path made by the same feet that had 
travelled the yard of the Fort. He followed it 
almost unconsciously at first, thinking of the 
strange histories that the far north hoards in its 
fastnesses, wondering what singular fate had 
driven the host of this secluded tavern — farthest 


314 An Adventurer of the North 

from the pleasant south country, nearest to the 
Pole — to stand, as it were, a sentinel at the raw 
outposts of the world. He looked down at the 
trail where he was walking with a kind of awe, 
which even his cheerful common sense could not 
dismiss. 

He came to the top of a ridge on which were 
a handful of meagre trees. Leaning on his gun, 
he looked straight away into the farthest dis- 
tance. On the left was a blurred edge of pines, 
with tops like ungainly tendrils feeling for the 
sky. On the right was a long, bare stretch of hills 
veiled in the thin smoke of the evening, and be- 
tween, straight before him, was a wide lane of 
country, billowing away to where it froze into 
the vast archipelago that closes with the summit 
of the world. He experienced now that weird 
charm which has drawn so many into Arctic 
wilds and gathered the eyes of millions long- 
ingly. Wife, child, London, civilization, were 
forgotten for the moment. He was under a spell 
which, once felt, lingers in your veins always. 

At length his look drew away from the glim- 
mering distance, and he suddenly became con- 
scious of human presence. Here at his feet 
almost was a man, also looking out along that 
slumbering waste. He was dressed in skins, his 
arms were folded across his breast, his chin bent 


The Trail of the Sun Dogs 315 

low, and he gazed up and out from deep eyes shad- 
owed by strong brows. Lawless saw the shoul- 
ders of the watcher heave and shake once or 
twice, and then a voice with a deep aching 
trouble in it spoke ; but at first he could catch 
no words. Presently, however, he heard dis- 
tinctly, for the man raised his hands high above his 
head, and the words fell painfully : “ Am I my 

brother’s keeper ? ” 

Then a low harsh laugh came from him, and 
he was silent again. Lawless did not move. At 
last the man turned round, and, seeing him 
standing motionless, his gun in his hands, he 
gave a hoarse cry. Then he stood still. ^‘If 
you have come to kill, do not wait,” he said. 
“ I am ready.” 

At the sound of Lawless’s reassuring voice 
he recovered, and began, in stumbling words, 
to excuse himself. His face was as Jacques 
Parfaite had described it ; trouble of some ter- 
rible kind was furrowed in it, and, though his 
body was stalwart, he looked as if he had 
lived a century. His eyes dwelt on Sir Duke 
Lawless for a moment, and then, coming nearer, 
he said, “You are an Englishman?” 

Lawless held out his hand in greeting, yet 
he was not sorry when the other replied : “The 
hand of no man in greeting. Are you alone?” 


3i 6 An Adventurer of the North 

When he had been told, he turned toward 
the Fort, and silently they made their way to 
it. At the door he turned and said to Lawless, 
“My name — to you — is Detmold.” 

The greeting between Jacques and his som- 
bre host was notable for its extreme brevity; 
with Shon M’Gann for its hesitation — Shon’s 
impressionable Irish nature was awed by the 
look of the man, though he had seen some 
strange things in the north. Darkness was on 
them by this time ; and the host lighted bowls 
of fat with wicks of deer’s tendons, and by the 
light of these and the fire they ate their supper. 
Parfaite beguiled the evening with tales of the 
north, always interesting to Lawless, to which 
Shon added many a shrewd word of humor — 
for he had recovered quickly from his first tim- 
idity in the presence of the stranger. 

As time went on Jacques saw that their host’s 
eyes were frequently fixed on Sir Duke in a half- 
eager, musing way, and he got Shon away to 
bed and left the two together. 

“You are a singular man. Why do you live 
here?” said Lawless. Then he went straight to 
the heart of the thing. “ What trouble have 
you had, or of what crime are you guilty?” 

The man rose to his feet, shaking, and 


The Trail of the Sun Dogs 317 

walked to and fro in the room for a time, more 
than once trying to speak, but failing. He 
beckoned to Lawless, and opened the door. 
Lawless took his hat and followed him along 
the trail they had travelled before supper until 
they had come to the ridge where they had met. 
The man faced the north, the moon glistening 
coldly on his gray hair. He spoke with incred- 
ible weight and slowness : 

I tell you, for you are one who understands 
men, and you come from a life that I once 
knew well. I know of your people. I was of 
good family — ” 

“ I know the name,” said Sir Duke, quietly, 
at the same time fumbling in his memory for 
flying bits of gossip and history which he could 
not instantly find. 

“ There were two brothers of us. I was the 
younger. A ship was going to the Arctic Sea.” 
He pointed into the north. “ We were both 
young and ambitious. He was in the army, 
I the navy. We went with the expedition. At 
first it was all beautiful and grand, and it 
seemed noble to search for those others who 
had gone into that land and never come back. 
But our ship got locked in the ice, and then 
came great trouble. A year went by and we did 
not get free ; then another year began. . . . 


3i 8 An Adventurer of the North 

Four of us set out for the south. Two died. 
My brother and I were left — ” 

Lawless exclaimed. He now remembered 
how general sympathy went out to a well-known 
county family when it was announced that two 
of its members were lost in the Arctic regions. 

Detmold continued : “ I was the stronger. 

He grew weaker and weaker. It was awful to 
live those days ; the endless snow and cold, the 
long nights when you could only hear the whir- 
ring of meteors, the bright sun which did not 
warm you, not even when many suns, the reflec- 
tions of itself, followed it — the mocking sun 
dogs, no more the sun than I am what my 
mother brought into the world. . . . We 

walked like dumb men, for the dreadful cold 
fills the heart with bitterness. I think I grew to 
hate him because he could not travel faster, that 
days were lost, and death crept on so pitilessly. 
Sometimes I had a mad wish to kill him. May 
you never know suffering that begets such 
things ! I laughed as I sat beside him, and saw 
him sink to sleep and die. ... I think I 
could have saved him. When he was gone I — 
what do men do sometimes when starvation is 
on them, and they have a hunger of hell to live? 
I did that shameless thing — and he was my 
brother! ... I lived and was saved.” 


The Trail of the Sun Dogs 319 

Lawless shrank away from the man, but words 
of horror got no farther than his throat. And 
he was glad afterwards that it was so ; for when 
he looked again at this woeful relic of humanity 
before him he felt a strange pity. 

God’s hand is on me to punish,” said the 
man. “ It will never be lifted. Death were easy; I 
bear the infamy of living.” 

Lawless reached out and caught him gently 
by the shoulder. “Poor fellow! poor Detmold!” 
he said. 

For an instant the sorrowful face lighted, the 
square chin trembled, and the hands thrust out 
towards Lawless, but suddenly dropped. 

“ Go,” he said, humbly, “ and leave me here. 
We must not meet again. . . I have had one 

moment of respite. . . Go!” 

Without a word. Lawless turned and made 
his way to the Fort. In the morning the three 
comrades started on their journey again ; but 
no one sped them on their way, or watched them 
as they went. 


The Pilot of Belle Amour 


He lived in a hut on a jutting crag of the 
Cliff of the King. You could get to it by a hard 
climb up a precipitous pathway, or by a ladder 
of ropes which swung from his cottage door 
down the cliff-side to the sands. The bay that 
washed the sands was called Belle Amour. The 
cliff was huge, sombre; it had a terrible granite 
moroseness. If you travelled back from its edge 
until you stood within the very heart of Labrador, 
you would add step upon step of barrenness and 
austerity. 

Only at seasons did the bay share the gloom 
of the cliff. When out of its shadow it was, in 
summer, very bright and playful, sometimes 
boisterous, often idle, coquetting with the sands. 
There was a great difference between the cliff and 
the bay ; the cliff was only as it appeared, but 
the bay was a shameless hypocrite. For under 
one shoulder it hid a range of reefs, and, at a 
spot where the shadows of the cliff never reached 
it, and the sun played with a grim kind of joy, 
a long needle of rock ran up at an angle under 
320 


The Pilot of Belle Amour 321 

the water, waiting to pierce irresistibly the ad- 
venturous ship that, in some mad moment, 
should creep to its shores. 

The man was more like the cliff than the bay; 
stern, powerful, brooding. His only companions 
were the Indians, who in summertime came and 
went, getting stores of him, which he in turn got 
from a post of the Hudson’s Bay Company, sev- 
enty miles up the coast. At one time the Com- 
pany, impressed by the number of skins brought 
to them by the pilot, and the stores he bought 
of them, had thought of establishing a post at 
Belle Amour; but they saw that his dealings 
with them were fair and that he had small gain, 
and they decided to use him as an unofficial 
agent, and reap what profit was to be had as things 
stood. Kenyon, the Company’s agent, who had 
the Post, was keen to know why Gaspard the 
pilot lived at Belle Amour. No white man so- 
journed near him, and he saw no one save now 
and then a priest who travelled silently among 
the Indians, or some fisherman, hunter, or 
woodsman, who, for pleasure or from pure adven- 
ture, ran into the bay and tasted the hospitality 
tucked away on the ledge of the Cliff of the 
King. 

To Kenyon Gaspard was unresponsive, how- 
ever adroit the catechism. Father Dorval also. 


322 An Adventurer of the North 

who sometimes stepped across the dark threshold 
of Gaspard’s hut, would have, for the man’s soul’s 
sake, dug out the heart of his secret; but Gas- 
pard, open with food, fire, blanket, and tireless 
attendance, closed like the doors of a dungeon 
when the priest would have read him. At the 
name of good Ste. Anne he would make the 
sacred gesture, and would take a blessing when 
the priest passed from his hut to go again into 
the wilds; but when pressed to disclose his mind 
and history, he would always say : “ M’sieu’, I 

have nothing to confess.” After a number of 
years the priest ceased to ask him, and he re- 
mained with the secret of his life, inscrutable and 
silent. 

Being vigilant, one would have seen, how- 
ever, that he lived in some land of memory or 
anticipation, beyond his life of daily toil and 
usual dealing. The hut seemed to have been 
built at a point where east and west and south 
the great gulf could be seen and watched. It 
seemed almost ludicrous that a man should call 
himself a pilot on a coast and at a bay where a 
pilot was scarce needed once a year. But he was 
known as Gaspard the pilot, and on those rare 
occasions when a vessel did anchor in the bay, 
he performed his duties with such a certainty as 
to leave unguessed how many death-traps 


The Pilot of Belle Amour 323 

crouched near that shore. At such times, how- 
ever, Gaspard seemed to look twenty years 
younger — a light would come into his face, a 
stalwart kind of pride sit on him, though be- 
neath there lurked a strange, sardonic look in 
his deep eyes — such a grim furtiveness as though 
he should say, “ If I but twist my finger we are 
all for the fishes.” But he kept his secret and 
waited. He never seemed to tire of looking 
down the gulf, as though expecting some ship. 
If one appeared and passed on, he merely 
nodded his head, hung up his glass, returned to 
his work, or, sitting by the door, talked to him- 
self in low, strange tones. If one came near, 
making as if it would enter the bay, a hungry 
joy possessed him. If a storm was on the joy 
was the greater. No pilot ever ventured to a ship 
on such rough seas as Gaspard ventured for 
small profit or glory. 

Behind it all lay his secret. There came one 
day a man who discovered it. 

It was Pierre, the half-breed adventurer. 
There was no point in all the wild northland 
which Pierre had not touched. He loved it as 
he loved the game of life. He never said so of 
it, but he never said so of the game of life, and 
he played it with a deep subterranean joy. He 
Jiad had his with the musk-ox in the Arctic 


324 An Adventurer of the North 

circle; with the white bear at the foot of 
Alaskan hills; with the seal in Baffin’s Bay; 
with the puma on the slope of the Pacific; and 
now at last he had come upon the trail of Lab- 
rador. Its sternness, its moodiness pleased him. 
He smiled at it the comprehending smile of the 
man who has fingered the nerves and the heart 
of men and things. As a traveller, wandering 
through a prison, looks upon its grim cells and 
dungeons with the eye of unembarrassed free- 
dom, finding no direful significance in the clank 
of its iron, so Pierre travelled down with a hand- 
ful of Indians through the hard fastnesses of that 
country, and, at last, alone, came upon the Bay 
of Belle Amour. 

There was in him some antique touch of re- 
finement and temperament which, in all his evil 
days and deeds and moments of shy nobility, 
could find its way into the souls of men with 
whom the world had had an awkward hour. He 
was a man of little speech, but he had that rare 
persuasive penetration which unlocked the doors 
of trouble, despair and tragedy. Men who could 
never have confessed to a priest confessed to 
him. In his every fibre was the granite of the 
Indian nature, that looked upon punishment 
with stoic satisfaction. 

In the heart of Labrador he had heard of 


The Pilot of Belle Amour 325 

Gaspard, and had travelled to that point in the 
compass where he could find him. One day 
when the sun was fighting hard to make a path- 
way of light in front of Gaspard’s hut, Pierre 
rounded a corner of the cliff and fronted Gas- 
pard as he sat there, his eyes idling gloomily with 
the sea. They said little to each other — in new 
lands hospitality has not need of speech. When 
Gaspard and Pierre looked each other in the 
eyes they knew that one word between them was 
as a hundred with other men. The heart knows 
its confessor, and the confessor knows the 
shadowed eye that broods upon some ghostly 
secret ; and when these are face to face there 
comes a merciless concision of understanding. 

“From where away?” said Gaspard, as he 
handed some tobacco to Pierre. 

“ From Hudson’s Bay, down the Red Wolf 
Plains, along the hills, across the coast country, 
here.” 

“Why?” Gaspard eyed Pierre’s small kit 
with curiosity, then flung up a piercing, furtive 
look. Pierre shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Adventure, adventure,” he answered. “The 
land” — he pointed north, west and east — “is 
all mine. I am the citizen of every village and 
every camp of the great north.” 

The old man turned his head towards a spot 


326 An Adventurer of the North 

up the shore of Belle Amour, before he turned 
to Pierre again, with a strange look, and said. 
Where do you go ? ” 

Pierre followed his gaze to that point in the 
shore, felt the undercurrent of vague meaning in 
his voice, guessed what was his cue, and said ; 
“ Somewhere, sometime ; but now only Belle 
Amour. I have had a long travel. I have found 
an open door. I will stay, if you please, eh ? If 
you please ?” 

Gaspard brooded. “ It is lonely,” he said. 
“This day it is all bright; the sun shines and 
the little gay waves crinkle to the shore. But 
Dieu / sometimes it is all black and ugly 
with storm. The waves come grinding, boom- 
ing in along the gridiron rocks” — he smiled a 
grim smile — “break through the teeth of the 
reefs, and split with a roar of hell upon the 
cliff. And ail the time, and all the time,” — his 
voice got low with a kind of devilish joy — 
“ there is a finger — Jesu! you should see that finger 
of the devil stretch up from the bowels of the 
earth, waiting, waiting for something to come 
out of the storm. And then — and then you 
can hear a wild laugh come out of the land, 
come up from the sea, come down from the sky 
— all waiting, waiting for something ! No, no, 
you would not stay here.” 


The Pilot of Belle Amour 327 

Pierre looked again to that point in the 
shore towards which Gaspard’s eyes had been 
cast. The sun was shining hard just then, and 
the stern, sharp rocks, tumbling awkwardly 
back into the waste behind, had an insolent 
harshness. Day perched garishly there. Yet 
now and then the staring light was broken by 
sudden and deep shadows — great fissures in 
the rocks and lanes between. These gave Pierre 
a suggestion, though why, he could not say. 
He knew that when men live lives of patient, 
gloomy vigilance, they generally have some- 
thing to watch and guard. Why should 
Gaspard remain here year after year ? His 
occupation was nominally a pilot in a bay 
rarely touched by vessels, and then only for 
shelter. A pilot need not take his daily life 
with such brooding seriousness. In body he 
was like flexible metal, all cord and muscle. He 
gave the impression of bigness, though he was 
small in stature. Yet, as Pierre studied him, he 
saw something that made him guess the man 
had had about him one day a woman, perhaps a 
child; no man could carry that look unless. If 
a woman has looked at you from day to day, 
something of her, some reflection of her face, 
passes to yours and stays there ; and if a child 
has held your hand long, or hung about your 


328 An Adventurer of the North 

knees, it gives you a kind of gentle wariness as 
you step about your home. 

Pierre knew that a man will cherish with a 
deep, eternal purpose a memory of a woman or a 
child, when, no matter how compelling his cue 
to remember where a man is concerned, he will 
yield it up in the end to time. Certain specu- 
lations arranged themselves definitely in 
Pierre’s mind : there was a woman, maybe a 
child once ; there was some sorrowful mystery 
about them ; there was a point in the shore that 
had held the old man’s eyes strangely ; there 
was the bay with that fantastic “ finger of the 
devil” stretching up from the bowels of the 
world. Behind the symbol lay the Thing — 
what was it ? 

Long time he looked out upon the gulf, then 
his eyes drew into the bay and stayed there, 
seeing mechanically, as a hundred fancies went 
through his mind. There were reefs of which 
the old man had spoken. He could guess from the 
color and movement of the water where they 
were. The finger of the devil — was it not real ? 
A finger of rock, waiting as the old man said — • 
for what ? 

Gaspard touched his shoulder. He rose and 
went with him into the gloomy cabin. They ate 
and drank in silence. When the meal was finished 


The Pilot of Belle Amour 329 

they sat smoking till night fell. Then the pilot 
lit a fire, and drew his rough chair to the door. 
Though it was only late summer, it was cold in 
the shade of the cliff. Long time they sat. Now 
and again Pierre intercepted the quick, elusive 
glance of his silent host. Once the pilot took 
his pipe from his mouth, and leaned his hands 
on his knees as if about to speak. But he did 
not. 

Pierre saw that the time was ripe for speech. 
So he said, as though he knew something : “ It 

is a long time since it happened ? ” 

Gaspard, brooding, answered : “Yes, a long 
time — too long.” Then, as if suddenly awak- 
ened to the strangeness of the question, he 
added, in a startled way : “ What do you know ? 
tell me quick what you know.” 

“ I know nothing except what comes to me 
here, pilot” — he touched his forehead — “but 
there is a thing — I am not sure what. There 
was a woman — perhaps a child ; there is some- 
thing on the shore ; there is a hidden point of 
rock in the bay ; and you are waiting for a ship 
— for the ship, and it does not come — is n’t 
that so ? ” 

Gaspard got to his feet, and peered into 
Pierre’s immobile face. Their eyes met. 

“ Mon Dieu /” said the pilot, his hand catch- 


330 An Adventurer of the North 

ing the smoke away from between them, “you 
are a droll man ; you have a wonderful mind. 
You are cold like ice, and still there is in you a 
look of fire.” 

“ Sit down,” answered Pierre, quietly, “ and 
tell me all. Perhaps I could think it out little 
by little; but it might take too long — and what 
is the good ? ” 

Slowly Gaspard obeyed. Both hands rested 
on his knees,^and he stared abstractedly into the 
fire. Pierre thrust forward the tobacco-bag. His 
hand lifted, took the tobacco, and then his eyes 
came keenly to Pierre’s. He was about to speak. 

“ Fill your pipe first,” said the half-breed 
coolly. 

The old man did so abstractedly. When the 
pipe was lighted Pierre said : “ Now ! ” 

“ I have never told the story, never — not even 
to P^re Corraine. But I know, I have it here ” 
— he put his hand to his forehead, as did Pierre 
— “that you will be silent — 

“ She was fine to see. Her eyes were black 
as beads ; and when she laugh it was all music. 
I was so happy ! We lived on the island of the 
Aux Coudres, far up there at Quebec. It was a 
wild place. There were smugglers and others 
there — maybe pirates. But she was like a saint 
of God among all. I was a lucky man. I was 


The Pilot of Belle Amour 331 

pilot, and took ships out to sea, and brought 
them in safe up the gulf. It is not all easy, for 
there are mad places. Once or twice when a 
wild storm was on I could not land at Cape Mar- 
tin, and was carried out to sea and over to 
France. . . . Well, that was not so bad ; there 
was plenty to eat and drink, nothing to do. But 
when I marry it was differen’. I was afraid of 
being carried away and leave my wife — the 
belle Mamette — alone long time. You see, I 
was young, and she was ver’ beautiful.” 

He paused and caught his hand over his 
mouth as though to stop a sound ; the lines of 
his face deepened. Presently he puffed his pipe 
so hard that the smoke and the sparks hid him 
in a cloud through which he spoke: “When 
the child was born — Holy Mother ! have you 
ever felt the hand of your own child in yours, 
and looked at the mother, as she lies there all 
pale and shining between the quilts? ” 

He paused. Pierre’s eyes dropped to the 
floor. 

Gaspard continued: “Well, it is a great 
thing, and the babe was born quick one day 
when we were all alone. A thing like that gives 
you wonder. Then I could not bear to go away 
with the ships, and at last I said — ‘One month 
and then the ice fills the gulf, and there will be 


332 An Adventurer of the North 

no more ships for the winter. That will be the 
last for me. I will be pilot no more — no.’ She 
was ver’ happy, and a laugh ran over her little 
white teeth. Mon Dieu, I stop that laugh pretty 
quick — in fine way ! ” 

He seemed for an instant to forget his great 
trouble, and his face went to warm sunshine like 
a boy’s; but it was as sun playing on a scarred 
fortress. Presently the light faded out of his 
face and left it like iron smoldering from the 
bellows. 

“ Well,” he said, “ you see there was a ship 
to go almost the last of the season, and I said 
to my wife, ‘ Mamette, it is the last time I shall 
be pilot. You must come with me and bring 
the child, and they will put us off at Father 
Point, and then we will come back slow to the 
village on the good Ste. Anne and live there 
ver’ quiet.’ When I say that to her she laugh 
back at me and say, ^ Beau ! beau I ^ and she 
laugh in the child’s eyes, and speak — oh, holy ! 
she speak so gentle and so light — and say to the 
child, ‘ Would you like to go with your father a 
pretty journey down the gulf ?’ And the little 
child laugh back at her, and shake its soft brown 
hair over its head. They were both so glad to 
go. I went to the captain of the ship. I say 
to him, * I will take my wife and my little child, 


The Pilot of Belle Amour 333 

and when we come to Father Point we will go 
ashore.’ Bien^ the captain laugh big, and it 
was all right. That was a long time ago — long 
time.” 

He paused again, threw his head back with a 
despairing toss, his chin dropped on his breast, 
his hands clasped between his knees, and his 
pipe, laid beside him on the bench, was for- 
gotten. 

Pierre quietly put some wood upon the fire, 
opened his kit, drew out from it a little flask of 
rum, and laid it upon the bench beside the pipe. 
A long time passed. At last Gaspard roused 
himself with a long sigh, turned and picked up 
the pipe, but, seeing the flask of rum, lifted it, 
and took one long swallow before he began to 
fill and light his pipe. There came into his 
voice something of iron hardness as he con- 
tinued his story. 

“ Well, we went into the boat. As we trav- 
elled down the gulf a great storm came out of 
the north. We thought it would pass, but it 
stayed on. When we got to the last place where 
the pilot could land the waves were running like 
hills to the shore, and no boat could live be- 
tween the ship and the point. For myself, it 
was nothing — I am a strong man and a great 
swimmer. But when a man has a wife and a 


334 Adventurer of the North 

child, it is differen’ So the ship went on out 
into the ocean with us. Well, we laugh a little, 
and think what a great brain I had when I say 
to my wife, ‘Come and bring the child for the 
last voyage of Gaspard the pilot.’ You see, 
there we were on board the ship, everything ver’ 
good, plenty to eat, much to drink, to smoke, 
all the time. The sailors, they were very funny, 
and to see them take my child, my little Ba- 
bette, and play with her as she roll on the deck — 
7nerci, it was grand ! So I say to my wife, ‘This 
will be bon voyage for all.’ But a woman, she 
has not the mind like a man. When a man 
laugh in the sun and think nothing of evil, a 
woman laugh, too, but there come a little quick 
sob to her lips. You ask her why and she can- 
not tell. She knows that something will hap- 
pen. A man has great idee, a woman great 
sight. So my wife, she turn her face away all 
sad from me then — she was right — she was right! 

“One day in the ocean we pass a ship — only 
two days out. The ship signal us. I say to my 
wife, ‘ Ha, ha ! now we can go back, maybe, to 
the good Ste. Anne.’ Well, the ships come close 
together, and the captain of the other ship he have 
something importan’ with ours. He ask if there 
will be chance of pilot into the gulf, because it 
is the first time that he visit Quebec. The cap- 


The Pilot of Belle Amour 


335 


tain swing round and call to me. I go up. I 
bring my wife and my little Babette; and that 
was how we sail back to the great gulf ! 

“ When my wife step on board that ship I see 
her face get pale, and something strange in her 
eyes. I ask her why ; she do not know, but she 
hug Babette close to her breast with a kind of 
fear A long, low, black ship, it could run 
through every sea. Soon the captain come to 
me and say, ‘You know the coast, the north 
coast of the gulf, from Labrador to Quebec ? ’ I 
tell him yes. ‘Well,’ he say, ‘do you know of 
a bay where few ships enter safe ?’ I think a 
moment and I tell him of Belle Amour. Then he 
say, ver’ quick, ‘ That is the place ; we will go 
to the bay of Belle Amour.’ He was ver’ kind 
to my face ; he give my wife and child good 
berth, plenty to eat and drink, and once more I 
laugh ; but my wife — there was in her face 
something I not understan’. It is not easy to 
understan’ a woman. We got to the bay. I 
had pride : I was young. I was the best pilot 
in the St. Lawrence, and I took in the ship be- 
tween the reefs of the bay, where they run like 
a gridiron, and I laugh when I swing the ship 
all ver’ quick to the right, after we pass the 
reefs, and make a curve round — something. 
The captain pull me up and ask why. But I 


336 An Adventurer of the North 

never tell him that. I not know why I never 
tell him. But the good God put the thought 
into my head, and I keep it to this hour, and it 
never leave me, never — never!” 

He slowly rubbed his hands up and down his 
knees, took another sip of rum and went on : 

“ I brought the ship close up to the shore, 
and we went to anchor. All that night I see the 
light of a fire on the shore. So I slide down 
and swim to the shore. Under a little arch of 
rocks something was going on. I could not tell, 
but I know from the sound that they are burying 
something. Then, all at once, it come to me — 
this is a pirate ship 1 I come closer and closer 
to the light, and then I see a dreadful thing. 
There was the captain and the mate, and another. 
They turn quick upon two other men — two sail- 
ors — and kill them. Then they take the bodies 
and wound them round some casks in a great 
hole, and cover it all up. I understand. It is 
the old legend that a dead body will keep gold 
all to itself, so that no one shall find it. Mon 
Dieu !''" — his voice dropped low and shook in 
his throat — “I gave one little cry at the sight, 
and then they saw me. There were three. They 
were armed ; they sprang upon me and tied me. 
Then they flung me beside the fire, and they 
cover up the hole with the gold and the bodies. 


The PiJot of Belle Amour 337 

“ When that was done they take me back to 
the ship, then with pistols at my head they make 
me pilot the ship out into the bay again. As we 
went they make a chart of the place. We travel 
along the coast for one day ; and then a great 
storm of snow come, and the captain say to me, 
‘Steer us into harbour.’ When we are at anchor, 
they take me and my wife and little child, and 
put us ashore alone, with a storm and the bare 
rocks and the dreadful night, and leave us there, 
that we shall never tell the secret of the gold. 
That night my wife and my child die in the 
snow.” 

Here his voice became strained and slow. 
“After a long time I work my way to an Injun 
camp. For months I was a child in strength, all 
my flesh gone. When the spring come I went 
and dug a deeper grave for my wife and p’tite 
Babette, and leave them there, where they had 
died. But I come to the Bay of Belle Amour, 
because I knew some day the man with the 
devil’s heart would come back for his gold, and 
then would arrive my time — the hour of God.” 

He paused. “The hour of God,” he repeated 
slowly. “ I have waited twenty years, but he has 
not come ; yet I know that he will come. I feel 
it here” — he touched his forehead ; “I know it 
here” — he tapped his heart. “Once where my 


338 An Adventurer of the North 

heart was, there is only one thing, and it is hate, 
and I know — I know — that he will come. 

And when he comes ” He raised his arm 

high above his head, laughed wildly, paused, let 
the hand drop, and then fell to staring in the 
fire. 

Pierre again placed the glass of rum between 
his fingers. But Gaspard put it down, caught 
his arms together across his breast, and never 
turned his face from the fire. Midnight came, 
and still they sat there silent. No man had a 
greater gift in waiting than Pierre. Many a 
time his life had been a swivel, upon which the 
comedies and tragedies of others had turned. 
He neither loved nor feared men ; sometimes he 
pitied them. He pitied Gaspard. He knew 
what it is to have the heartstrings stretched out, 
one by one, by the hand of a Gorgon, while the 
feet are chained to the rocking world. 

Not till the darkest hour of the morning did 
the two leave their silent watch and go to bed. 
The sun had crept stealthily to the door of the 
hut before they rose again. Pierre laid his hand 
upon Gaspard’s shoulder as they travelled out 
into the morning, and said : “ My friend, I 
understand. Your secret is safe with me ; you 
shall take me to the place where the gold is 
buried, but it shall wait there until the time is 


The Pilot of Belle Amour 339 

I ripe. What is gold to me ? Nothing. To find 
gold, that is the trick of any fool. To win it or 
to earn it is the only game. Let the bodies rot 
about the gold. You and I will wait. I have 
many friends in the northland, but there is no 
1 face in any tent-door looking for me. You are 
alone ; well, I will stay with you. Who can tell ? 
— perhaps it is near at hand — the hour of God!” 

The huge hard hand of Gaspard swallowed 
the small hand of Pierre, and, in a voice scarcely 
above a whisper, he answered: “You shall be 
my comrade. I have told you all, as I have 
never told it to my God. I do not fear you 
about the gold ; it is all cursed. You are not 
like other men ; I will trust you. Some time 
you also have had the throat of a man in your 
fingers, and watched the life spring out of his 
eyes, and leave them all empty. When men feel 
like that, what is gold ? what is anything ? 
There is food in the bay and on the hills. We 
will live together, you and I. Come and I will 
show you the place of hell.” 

Together they journeyed down the crag and 
along the beach to the place where the gold, the 
grim god of this world, was fortressed and bas- 
tioned by its victims. 

The days went on ; the weeks and months 
ambled by. Still the two lived together. Little 


340 An Adventurer of the North 

speech passed between them, save that speech of 
comrades, who use more the sign than the 
tongue. It seemed to Pierre after a time that 
Gaspard’s wrongs were almost his own. Yet 
with this difference : he must stand by and let 
the avenger be the executioner ; he must be the 
spectator merely. 

Sometimes he went inland and brought back 
moose, caribou, and the skins of other animals, 
thus assisting Gaspard in his dealings with the 
great Company. But again there were days 
when he did nothing but lie on the skins at the 
hut’s door, or saunter in the shadows and the 
sunlight. Not since he had come to Gaspard 
had a ship passed the bay or sought to anchor 
in it. 

But there came a day. It was the early sum- 
mer. The snow had shrunk from the ardent 
sun, and had swilled away to the gulf, leaving 
the tender grass showing. The moss on the 
rocks had changed from brown to green, and 
the vagrant birds had fluttered back from the 
south. The winter’s furs had been carried away in 
the early spring to the Company’s post, by a de- 
tachment of coureurs de dots. There was little 
left to do. This morning they sat in the sun 
looking out upon the gulf. Presently, Gaspard 
rose and went into the hut. Pierre’s eyes still lazily 


The Pilot of Belle Amour 341 

scanned the water. As he looked he saw a ves- 
sel rounding a point in the distance. Suppose 
this was the ship of the pirate and murderer ? 
The fancy diverted him. His eyes drew away 
from the indistinct craft — first to the reefs, and 
then to that spot where the colossal needle 
stretched up under the water. 

It was as Pierre speculated. Brigond, the 
French pirate, who had hidden his gold at such 
shameless cost, was, after twenty years in the 
galleys at Toulon, come back to find his treas- 
ure. He had doubted little that he would find 
it. The lonely spot, the superstition concerning 
dead bodies, the supposed doom of Gaspard, all 
ran in his favor. His little craft came on, 
manned by as vile a mob as ever mutinied or 
built a wrecker’s fire. 

When the ship got within a short distance of 
the bay Pierre rose and called. Gaspard came 
to the door. 

“ There ’s work to do, pilot,” he said. Gas- 
pard felt the thrill of his voice, and flashed a 
look out to the gulf. He raised his hands with 
a gasp. “I feel it,” he said : “ it is the hour of 
God ! ” 

He started to the rope ladder of the cliff, 
then wheeled suddenly and came back to Pierre. 
“You must not come,” he said. “Stay here 


342 An Adventurer of the North 

and watch ; you shall see great things.” His 
voice had a round, deep tone. He caught both 
Pierre’s hands in his and added : “ It is for my 
wife and child ; I have no fear ! Adieu, my 
friend ! When you see the good Pdre Corraine 
say to him — but no, it is no matter — there is 
One greater ! ” 

Once again he caught Pierre hard by the 
shoulder, then ran to the cliff and swung down 
the ladder. All at once there shot through 
Pierre’s body an impulse, and his eyes lighted 
with excitement. He sprang toward the cliff. 
“ Gaspard, come back!” he called; then 
paused, and, with an enigmatical smile, shrug- 
ged his shoulders, drew back, and waited. 

The vessel was hove to outside the bay, as if 
hesitating. Brigond was considering whether it 
were better, with his scant chart, to attempt the 
bay, or to take small boats and make for the 
shore. He remembered the reefs, but he did 
not know of the needle of rock. 

Presently he saw Gaspard’s boat coming. 
“ Some one who knows the bay,” he said ; ‘‘ I 
see a hut on the cliff.” 

“Hello! who are you?” Brigond called 
down as Gaspard drew alongside. 

“A Hudson’s Bay Company’s man,” an- 
swered Gaspard. 


The Pilot of Belle Amour 


343 


“ How many are there of you ?” 

Myself alone.” 

“Can you pilot us in ?” 

“ I know the way.” 

“ Come up.” 

Gaspard remembered Brigond, and he veiled 
his eyes lest the hate he felt should reveal him. 
No one could have recognized him as the young 
pilot of twenty years before. Then his face 
was cheerful and bright, and in his eye was the 
fire of youth. Now a thick beard and furrowing 
lines hid all the look of the past. His voice, 
too, was desolate and distant. 

Brigond clapped him on the shoulder. 
“How long have you lived off there?” he 
asked, as he jerked his finger toward the shore. 

“ A good many years.” 

“Did anything strange ever happen there?” 

Gaspard felt his heart contract again, as it 
did when Brigond’s hand touched his shoulder. 

“Nothing strange is known.” 

A vicious joy came into Brigond’s face. His 
fingers opened and shut. “ Safe, by the holy 
heaven ! ” he grunted. 

“ ‘ By the holy heaven ! ’ ” repeated Gaspard, 
under his breath. 

They walked forward. Almost as they did so 
there came a big puff of wind across the bay : 


344 


An Adventurer of the North 


one of those sudden currents that run in from 
the ocean and the gulf stream. Gaspard saw, 
and smiled. In a moment the vessel’s nose was 
towards the bay, and she sailed in, dipping a 
shoulder to the sudden foam. On she came 
past reef and bar, a pretty tumbril to the 
slaughter. The spray feathered up to her sails, 
the sun caught her on deck and beam ; she was 
running dead for the needle of rock. 

Brigond stood at Gaspard’s side. All at once 
Gaspard made the sacred gesture and said, in a 
low tone, as if only to himself : '■'■Pardon, mon 
Capitaine, mon Jesul'" Then he turned triumph- 
antly, fiercely upon Brigond. The pirate was 
startled. “What ’s the matter?” he said. 

Not Gaspard, but the needle rock replied. 
There was a sudden shock; the vessel stood still 
and shivered; lurched, swung shoulder down- 
wards, reeled and struggled. Instantly she be- 
gan to sink. 

“The boats! lower the boats!” cried Brigond. 
“This cursed fool has run us on a rock!” 

The waves, running high, now swept over the 
deck. Brigond started aft, but Gaspard sprang 
before him. “ Stand back,” he called. “ Where 
you are you die!” 

Brigond, wild with terror and rage, ran at 
him. Gaspard caught him as he came. With 


The Pilot of Belle Amour 345 

vast strength he lifted him and dashed him to 
the deck. “ Die there, murderer!” he cried. 

Brigond crouched upon the deck, looking at 
him with fearful eyes. ^‘Who are you?” he 
asked. 

“ I am Gaspard the pilot. I have waited for 
you twenty years. Up there, in the snow, my 
wife and child died. Here, in this bay, you 
die!” 

There was noise and racketing behind them, 
but they two heard nothing. The one was alone 
with his terror, the other with his soul. Once, 
twice, thrice, the vessel heaved, then went sud- 
denly still. 

Gaspard understood. One look at his victim, 
then he made the sacred gesture again, and 
folded his arms. 

Pierre, from the height of the cliff, looking 
down, saw the vessel dip at the bow, and then 
the waters divided and swallowed it up. 

‘‘ Gaspard should have lived,” he said. “ But 
— who can tell ? Perhaps Mamette was waiting 
for him.” 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 

I. The Search 

She was only a big gulf yawl, which a man 
and a boy could manage at a pinch, with old- 
fashioned high bulwarks, but lying clean in the 
water. She had a tolerable record for speed, 
and for other things so important that they were 
now and again considered by the Government 
at Quebec. She was called the Ninety-Nine. 
With a sense of humour the cur6 had called her 
so, after an interview with her owner and cap- 
tain, Tarboe the smuggler. When he said to 
Tarboe at Angel Point that he had come to seek 
the one sheep that was lost, leaving behind him 
the other ninety-and-nine within the fold at Isle 
of Days, Tarboe had replied that it was a mis- 
take — he was the ninety-nine, for he needed no 
repentance, and immediately offered the cur^ 
some old brown brandy of fine flavour. They 
both had a whimsical turn, and the cur^ did 
not ask Tarboe how he came by such perfect 
liquor. Many high in authority, it was said, had 
been soothed even to the winking of an eye 
346 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 347 

when they ought to have sent a Nordenfelt 
against the Ninety-Nine. 

The day after the cur^ left Angel Point he 
spoke of Tarboe and his craft as the Ninety-and- 
Nine; and Tarboe hearing of this — for some- 
how he heard everything — immediately painted 
out the old name, and called her the Ninety- 
Nine^ saying that she had been so blessed by the 
cur^. Afterwards the Ninety-Nine had an in- 
creasing reputation for exploit and daring. In 
brief, Tarboe and his craft were smugglers, and 
to have trusted gossip would have been to say 
that the boat was as guilty as the man. 

Their names were much more notorious than 
sweet; and yet in Quebec men laughed as they 
shrugged their shoulders at them; for as many 
jovial things as evil were told of Tarboe. When 
it became known that a dignitary of the Church 
had been given a case of splendid wine, which 
had come in a roundabout way to him, men 
waked in the night and laughed, to the annoy- 
ance of their wives; for the same dignitary had 
preached a powerful sermon against smugglers 
and the receivers of stolen goods. It was a sad 
thing for the good man to be called a Ninety- 
Niner, as were all good friends of Tarboe, high 
and low. But when he came to know, after the 
wine had been leisurely drank and becomingly 


348 An Adventurer of the North 

praised, he brought his influence to bear in civic 
places, so that there was nothing left to do but 
to corner Tarboe at last. 

It was in the height of summer, when there 
was little to think of in the old fortressed city, 
and a dart after a brigand appealed to the ro- 
mantic natures of the idle French folk, common 
and gentle. 

Through clouds of rank tobacco smoke, and 
in the wash of their bean soup, the habitants dis- 
cussed the fate of “Black Tarboe,” and officers 
of the garrison and idle ladies gossiped at the 
Citadel and at Murray Bay of the freebooting 
gentleman whose Ninety-Nine had furnished 
forth many a table in the great walled city. 
But Black Tarboe himself was down at Anticosti 
waiting for a certain merchantman. Passing 
vessels saw the Ninety -Nine anchored in an open 
bay, flying its flag flippantly before the world — 
a rag of black sheepskin, with the wool on, in 
profane keeping with its name. 

There was no attempt at hiding, no skulking 
behind a point, or scurrying from observation, 
but an indolent and insolent waiting — for some- 
thing. “Black Tarboe ’s getting reckless!” said 
one captain coming in, and another going out 
grinned as he remembered the talk at Quebec, and 
thought of the sport provided for the Ninety- Nine 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 349 

when she should come up stream, as she must 
in due time, for Tarboe’s home was on the Isle 
of Days, and was not he fond and proud of his 
daughter Joan to a point of folly ? He was not 
alone in his admiration of Joan, for the cur^ at 
Isle of Days said high things of her. 

Perhaps this was because she was unlike most 
other girls, and women too, in that she had a 
sense of humour, got from having mixed with 
choice spirits who visited her father and carried 
out at Angel Point a kind of freemasonry, which 
had few rites and many charges and counter- 
charges. She had that almost impossible gift 
in a woman — the power of telling a tale whimsi- 
cally. It was said that once, when Orvay Lafarge, 
a new Inspector of Customs, came to spy out the 
land, she kept him so amused by her quaint wit 
that he sat in the doorway gossiping with her 
while Tarboe and two others unloaded and safely 
hid away a cargo of liquors from the Ninety- 
Nine. And one of the men, as cheerful as Joan 
herself, undertook to carry a little keg of brandy 
into the house, under the very nose of the young 
inspector, who had sought to mark his appoint- 
ment by the detection and arrest of Tarboe 
single-handed. He had never met Tarboe or 
Tarboe’s daughter when he made his boast. If 
his superiors had known that Loce Bissonnette, 


An Adventurer of the North 


350 

Tarboe’s jovial lieutenant, had carried the keg 
of brandy into the house in a water-pail, not fif- 
teen feet from where Lafarge sat with Joan, they 
might have asked for his resignation. True, the 
thing was cleverly done, for Bissonnette made 
the water spill quite naturally against his leg, 
and when he turned to Joan and said in a crusty 
way that he did n’t care if he spilled all the 
water in the pail, he looked so like an unwilling 
water-carrier that Joan for one little moment did 
not guess. When she understood she laughed 
till the tears came to her eyes, and presently, 
because Lafarge seemed hurt, gave him to under- 
stand that he was upon his honour if she told 
him what it was. He consenting, she, still laugh- 
ing, asked him into the house, and then drew 
the keg from the pail, before his eyes, and, tap- 
ping it, gave him some liquor, which he accepted 
without churlishness. He found nothing in this 
to lessen her in his eyes, for he knew that women 
have no civic virtues. 

He drank to their better acquaintance with 
few compunctions, a matter not scandalous, for 
there is nothing like a witty woman to turn a 
man’s head, and there was not so much at stake 
after all. Tarboe had gone on for many a year 
till his trade seemed like the romance of law 
rather than its breach. It is safe to say that 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 351 

Lafarge was a less sincere if not a less blameless 
customs officer from this time forth. For 
humour on a woman’s lips is a potent thing, as 
any man knows that has kissed it off in 
laughter. 

As we said, Tarboe lay rocking in a bight at 
Anticosti with an empty hold and a scanty 
larder. Still, he was in no ill-humor, for he 
smoked much and talked more than common. 
Perhaps that was because Joan was with him — 
an unusual thing. She was as good a sailor as 
her father, but she did not care, nor did he, to 
have her mixed up with him in his smuggling. 
So far as she knew, she had never been on 
board the Ninety -Nine when it carried a 
smuggled cargo. She had not broken the letter 
of the law. Her father, on asking her to come 
on this cruise, had said that it was a pleasure 
trip to meet a vessel in the gulf. 

The pleasure had not been remarkable, 
though there had been no bad weather. The 
coast of Anticosti is cheerless, and it is possible 
even to tire of sun and water. True, Bisson- 
nette played the concertina with passing sweet- 
ness, and sang as little like a wicked smuggler 
as one might think. But there were boundaries 
even to that, as there were to his lovemaking, 
which was, however, so interwoven with laughter 


352 An Adventurer of the North 

that it was impossible to think the matter 
serious. Sometimes of an evening Joan danced 
on deck to the music of the concertina — 
dances which had their origin largely with her- 
self : fantastic, touched off with some unex- 
pected sleight of foot — almost uncanny at 
times to Bissonnette, whose temperament could 
hardly go her distance when her mood was as this. 

Tarboe looked on with a keener eye and 
understanding, for was she not bone of his bone 
and flesh of his flesh ? Who was he that he 
should fail to know her ? He saw the moon- 
light play on her face and hair, and he waved 
his head with the swaying of her body, and 
smacked his lips in thought of the fortune, 
which, smuggling days over, would carry them 
up to St. Louis Street, Quebec, there to dwell 
as in a garden of good things. 

After many days had passed, Joan tired of 
the concertina, of her own dancing, of her 
father’s tales, and became inquisitive. So at 
last she said: ‘‘ Father, what ’s all this for ?” 

Tarboe did not answer her at once, but, turn- 
ing to Bissonnette, asked him to play “The 
Demoiselle with the Scarlet Hose.” It was a 
gay little demoiselle, according to Bissonnette, 
and through the creaking, windy gaiety Tarboe 
and his daughter could talk without being 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 353 

heard by the musician. Tarboe lit another 
cigar — that badge of greatness in the eyes of 
his fellow-habitants, and said: 

“ What ’s all this for, Joan ? Why, we Ve 
here for our health.” His teeth . bit on the 
cigar with enjoyable emphasis. 

** If you do n’t tell me what ’s in the wind, 
you ’ll be sorry. Come, where ’s the good ! 
I ’ve got as much head as you have, father, 
and—” 

“ Mon Dieu / Much more. That ’s not the 
question. It was to be a surprise to you.” 

** Pshaw ! You can only have one minute of 
surprise, and you can have months of fun look- 
ing out for a thing. I do n’t want surprises ; I 
want what you ’ve got — the thing that ’s kept 
you good-tempered while we lie here like snails 
on the rocks.” 

“ Well, my cricket, if that ’s the way you 
feel, here you are. It is a long story, but I will 
make it short. Once there was a pirate called 
Brigond, and he brought into a bay on the 
coast of Labrador a fortune in some kegs — 
gold, gold ! He hid it in a cave, wrapping 
around it the dead bodies of two men. It is 
thought that no one can ever find it so. He 
hid it, and sailed away. He was captured, and 
sent to prison in France for twenty years. 


354 An Adventurer of the North 

Then he came back with a crew and another 
ship, and sailed into the bay, but his ship went 
down within sight of the place. And so the 
end of him and all. But wait. There was one 
man, the mate on the first voyage. He had 
been put in prison also. He did not get away 
as soon as Brigond. When he was free he come 
to the captain of a ship that I know, the Free- 
and-Easy, that sails to Havre, and told him the 
story, asking for a passage to Quebec. The 
captain — Gobal — did not believe it, but said he 
would bring him over on the next voyage. 
Gobal come to me and told me all there was to 
tell. I said that it was a true story, for Pretty 
Pierre told me once he saw Brigond’s ship go 
down in the bay ; but he would not say how, 
or why or where. Pierre would not lie in a 
thing like that, and — ” 

“Why did n’t he get the gold himself?” 

“ What is money to him ? He is a gypsy. 
To him the money is cursed. He said so. Eh 
Men! some wise men are fools, one way or 
another. Well, I told Gobal I would give the 
man the Ninety-Nine for the cruise and search, 
and that we should divide the gold between us, 
if it was found, taking out first enough to make 
a dot for you and a fine handful for Bissonnette. 
But no, shake not your head like that. It shall 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 355 

be so. Away went Gobal four months ago, and 
I get a letter from him weeks past, just after 
Whitsunday, to say he would be here some time 
in the first of July, with the man. Well, it is a 
great game. The man is a pirate, but it does 
not matter, he has paid for that. I thought you 
would be glad of a fine adventure like that, so I 
said to you, ‘Come.’ ” 

“ But, father ” 

“ If you do not like you can go on with 
Gobal in the Free-and-Easy, and you shall be 
landed at the Isle of Days. That ’s all. We ’re 
waiting here for Gobal. He promised to stop 
just outside this bay and land our man on us. 
Then, blood of my heart, away we go after the 
treasure !” 

Joan’s eyes flashed. Adventure was in her as 
deep as life itself. She had been cradled in it, 
reared in it, lived with it, and here was no law- 
breaking. Whose money was it ? No one’s, for 
who should say what ship it was, or what people 
were robbed by Brigond and those others ? 
Gold, that was a better game than wine and 
brandy, and for once her father would be on a 
cruise which would not be, as it were, sailing in 
forbidden waters. 

“When do you expect Gobal?” she asked 
eagerly. 


356 An Adventurer of the North 

“ He ought to have been here a week ago. 
Maybe he has had a bad voyage or something.” 

“ He ’s sure to come ?” 

“ Of course. I found out about that. She ’s 
got a big consignment to people in Quebec. 
Something has gone wrong, but she ’ll be here — 
yes.” 

“What will you do if you get the money ?” 
she asked. 

Tarboe laughed heartily. “ My faith ! come, 
play up those scarlet hose, Bissonette ! My 
faith ! I ’ll go into Parliament at Quebec. 
Thunder ! I will have sport with them. I ’ll re- 
form the customs. There shan’t be any more 
smuggling. The people of Quebec shall drink 
no more good wine, no one except Black 
Tarboe, the member for Isle of Days.” 

Again he laughed, and his eyes spilt fire like 
revolving wheels. For a moment Joan was 
quiet, her face was shining like the sun on a 
river. She saw more than her father, for she saw 
release. A woman may stand by a man who 
breaks the law, but in her heart she always has 
bitterness, for that the world shall speak well of 
herself and what she loves is the secret desire of 
every woman. In her heart she never can defy 
the world as does a man. 

She had carried off the situation as became 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 357 

the daughter of a daring adventurer, who in 
more stirring times might have been a Du Lhut 
or a Rob Roy, but she was sometimes tired of 
the fighting, sometimes wishful that she could 
hold her position easier. Suppose the present 
good cur^ should die and another less consider- 
ate arrive, how hard might her position become. 
Then, she had a spirit above her station, as have 
most people who know the world and have seen 
something of its forbidden side ; for it is notable 
that wisdom comes not alone from loving good 
things, but from having seen evil as well as good. 
Besides, Joan was not a woman to go singly to 
her life’s end. 

There was scarcely a man on Isle of Days and 
in the parish of Ste. Eunice, on the mainland, 
but would gladly have taken to wife the daughter 
of Tarboe the smuggler, and it is likely that the 
cur^ of either parish would not have advised 
against it. 

Joan had had the taste of the lawless, and 
now she knew, as she sat and listened to Bis- 
sonnette’s music, that she also could dance for 
joy, in the hope of a taste of the lawful. With 
this money, if it were got, there could be another 
life — in Quebec. She could not forbear laugh- 
ing now, as she remembered that first day she had 
seen Orvay Lafarge, and she said to Bissonnetlc : 


35^ An Adventurer of the North 

“ Loce, do you mind the keg in the water- 
pail ? ” Bissonnette paused on an out-pull and 
threw back his head with a soundless laugh, then 
played the concertina into contortions. 

That Lafarge ! H’m ! He is very polite ; 
but, pshaw, it is no use that, in whiskey-running. 
To beat a great man, a man must be great. 
Tarboe Noir can lead M’sieu’ Lafarge all like 
that!” 

It seemed as if he were pulling the nose of 
the concertina. Tarboe began tracing a kind of 
maze with his fingers on the deck, his eyes 
rolling outward like an endless puzzle. But 
presently he turned sharp on Joan. 

“ How many times have you met him ? ” he 
asked. 

“Oh, six or seven — eight or nine, perhaps.” 

Her father stared. “ Eight or nine ? By 
the holy ! Is it like that ? Where have you 
seen him ? ” 

“ Twice at our home, as you know ; two or 
three times at dances at the Belle Chatelaine, 
and the rest when we were at Quebec, in May. 
He is amusing. Monsieur Lafarge.” 

“ Yes, two of a kind,” remarked Tarboe drily, 
and then told his schemes to Joan, letting Bis- 
sonnette hang up “The Demoiselle with the 
Scarlet Hose,” and begin “ The Coming of the 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 359 

Gay Cavalier.” She entered into his plans with 
spirit, and together they speculated what bay it 
might be, of the many on the coast of Labra- 
dor. 

They spent two days longer waiting, and 
then at dawn a merchantman came sauntering 
up to anchor. She signalled to the Ninety-Nine. 
In five minutes Tarboe was climbing up the side 
of the Free-and-Easy^ and presently was in 
Gobal’s cabin, with a glass of wine in his hand. 

“ What kept you, Gobal ?” he said. “You ’re 
ten days late, at least.” 

“ Storm and sickness — broken mainmast and 
smallpox.” Gobal was not cheerful. 

Tarboe caught at something. “You’ve got 
our man?” 

Gobal drank off his wine slowly. “Yes,” he 
said. 

“Well? Why do n’t you fetch him?” 

‘You can see him below.” 

“ The man has legs, let him walk here. 
Hello! my Gobal, what’s the matter? If he’s 
here, bring him up. We ’ve no time to lose.” 

“ Tarboe, the fool got smallpox and died 
three hours ago — the tenth man since we started. 
We ’re going to give him to the fishes. They ’re 
putting him in his linen now.” 

Tarboe’s face hardened. Disaster did not dis- 


360 An Adventurer of the North 

may him, it either made him ugly or humorous, 
and one phase was as dangerous as the other. 

“D ’ye mean to say,” he groaned, “that the 
game is up ? is it all finished? Sweat o’ my 
soul, my skin crawls like hot glass! Is it the 
end, eh? The beast, to die!” 

Gobal’s eyes glistened. He had sent up the 
mercury, he would now bring it down. 

“Not such a beast as you think. A live 
pirate, a convict as comrade in adventure, is not 
sugar in the teeth. This one was no better than 
the worst. Well, he died. That was awkward. 
But he gave me the chart of the bay before he 
died — and that was damn square.” 

Tarboe held out his hand eagerly, the big 
fingers bending claw-like. 

“ Give it me, Gobal !” he said. 

“ Wait. There ’s no hurry. Come along, 
there ’s the bell; they ’re going to drop him.” 

He coolly motioned, and passed out from the 
cabin to the ship’s side. Tarboe kept his tongue 
from blasphemy and his hand from the captain’s 
shoulder, for he knew only too well that Gobal 
held the game in his hands. They leaned over 
and saw two sailors with something on a plank. 

“ We therefore commit his body to the deep, 
in the knowledge of the Judgment Day — let her 
go!” grunted Gobal; and a long straight canvas 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 361 

bundle shot with a swishing sound beneath the 
water. “It was rough on him, too,” he contin- 
ued; “he waited twenty years to have his chance 
again. Damn me, if I did n’t feel as if I ’d hit 
him in the eye somehow when he begged me to 
keep him alive long enough to have a look at the 
rhino. But it wasn’t no use. He had to go, 
and I told him so. Then he did the nice thing; 
he give me the chart. But he made me swear 
on a book of the Mass that if we got the gold 
we ’d send one-half his share to a woman in 
Paris, and the rest to his brother, a priest at 
Nancy. I ’ll keep my word — but yes ! Eh, 
Tarboe?” 

“You can keep your word for me ! What, 
you think, Gobal, there is no honor in Black 
Tarboe, and you ’ve known me ten years ! 
Haven ’t I always kept my word like a clock ?” 

Gobal stretched out his hand. “ Like the 
sun — sure. That ’s enough. We ’ll stand by 
my oath. You shall see the chart.” 

Going again inside the cabin, Gobal took out 
a map grimmed with ceaseless fingering, and 
showed it to Tarboe, putting his finger on the 
spot where the treasure lay. 

“ The Bay of Belle Amour ! ” cried Tarboe, 
his eyes flashing. “Ah, I know it. That ’s 
where Gaspard the pilot lived. It ’s only forty 


362 An Adventurer of the North 

leagues or so from here.” His fingers ran here 
arfd there on the map. “Yes, yes,” he con- 
tinued, “ it ’s so, but he has n’t placed the reef 
right. Ah, here is how Brigond’s ship went 
down. There ’s a needle of rock in the bay. It 
is n’t here. 

Gobal handed the chart over. “ I can ’t go 
with you, but I take your word ; I can say no 
more. If you cheat me, I ’ll kill you ; that ’s 
all.” 

“ Let me give a bond,” said Tarboe quickly. 
“ If I saw much gold perhaps I could n’t trust 
myself, but there’s some one to be trusted, who ’ll 
swear for me. If my daughter Joan give her 
word — ” 

“Is she with you ?” 

“ Yes, in the Ninety-Nine, now. I ’ll send 
Bissonnette for her. Yes, yes, I ’ll send, for gold 
is worse than bad whisky when it gets into a 
man’s head. Joan will speak for me.” 

Ten minutes later Joan was in Gobal’s cabin, 
guaranteeing for her father the fulfillment of his 
bond. An hour afterwards the Free-and-Easy 
was moving up stream with her splintered masts 
and ragged sails, and the Ninety-Nine was look- 
ing up and over towards the Bay of Belle 
Amour. She reached it in the late afternoon of 
the next day. Bissonnette did not know the 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 363 

object of the expedition, but he had caught the 
spirit of the affair, and his eyes were like spots 
of steel as he held the sheet or took his turn at 
the tiller. Joan’s eyes were now on the sky, now 
on the sail, and now on the land, weighing as 
wisely as her father the advantage of the wind, 
yet dwelling on that cave where skeletons kept 
ward over the spoils of a pirate ship. 

They arrived, and Tarboe took the Ninety - 
Nine warily in on a little wind off the land. He 
came near sharing the fate of Brigond, for the 
yawl grazed the needle of the rock that, hiding 
away in the water, with a nose out for destruc- 
tion, awaits its victims. They reached safe an- 
chorage, but by the time they landed it was 
night, with, however, a good moon showing. 

All night they searched, three silent, eager 
figures, drawing step by step nearer the place 
where the ancient enemy of man was barracked 
about by men’s bodies. It was Joan, who, at 
last, as dawn drew up, discovered the hollow be- 
tween two great rocks where the treasure lay. A 
few minutes’ fierce digging, and the kegs of gold 
were disclosed, showing through the ribs of two 
skeletons. Joan shrank back, but the two men 
tossed aside the rattling bones, and presently the 
kegs were standing between them on the open 
shore. Bissonnette’s eyes were hungry — he knew 


364 An Adventurer of the North 

now the wherefore of the quest. He laughed 
outright, a silly, loud, hysterical laugh. Tarboe’s 
eyes shifted from the sky to the river, from the 
river to the kegs, from the kegs to Bissonette. 
On him they stayed a moment. Bissonette 
shrank back. Tarboe was feeling for the first 
time in his life the deadly suspicion which comes 
with ill-gotten wealth. This passed as his eyes 
and Joan’s met, for she had caught the melo- 
drama, the overstrain. Bissonnette’s laugh had 
pointed the situation, and her sense of humour 
had prevailed. “ La, la,” she said, with a whim- 
sical quirk of the head, and no apparent relev- 
ancy : 

“ Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home. 

Your house is on fire, and your children all gone.” 

The remedy was good. Tarboe’s eyes came 
again to their natural liveliness, and Bissonnette 
said : 

“ My throat ’s like a piece of sandpaper.” 

Tarboe handed over a brandy flask, after tak- 
ing a pull himself, and then sitting down on one 
of the kegs, he said : “ It is as you see, and now 
Angel Point very quick. To get it there safe, 
that’s the point!” Then, scanning the sky 
closely : “ It ’s for a handsome day, and the 

wind goes to bear us up fine. Good 1 Well, 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 365 

for you, Bissonnette, there shall be a thousand 
dollars; you shall have the Belle Chatelaine Inn 
and the little lady at Point Pierrot. For the 
rest, you shall keep a quiet tongue, eh ? If not, 
my Bissonnette, we shall be the best of strangers, 
and you shall not be happy. Eh ? ” 

Bissonnette’seyes flashed. “ The Belle Chate- 
laine ? Good ! that is enough. My tongue is 
tied ; I cannot speak ; it is fastened with a thous- 
and pegs.” 

“Very good, a thousand gold pegs, and you 
shall never pull them. The little lady will have 
you with them, not without ; and unless you 
stand by me, no one will have you at any price — 
by God ! ” 

He stood up, but Joan put out her hand. 
“You have been speaking, now it is my turn. 
Do n’t cry cook until you have your venison 
home. What is more, I gave my word to Gobal, 
and I will keep it. I will be captain. No talk- 
ing ! When you ’ve got the kegs in the cellar at 
Angel Point, good ! But now — come, my com- 
rades, I am your captain.” 

She was making the thing a cheerful adven- 
ture, and the men now swung the kegs on their 
shoulders and carried them to the boat. In 
another half-hour they were under way in the 
gaudy light of an orange sunrise, a simmering 


366 An Adventurer of the North 

wind from the sea lifting them up the river, and 
the grey-red coast of Labrador shrinking sul- 
lenly back. 

About this time, also, a Government cutter 
was putting out from under the mountain-wall 
at Quebec, its officer in command having got 
renewed orders from the Minister to bring in 
Tarboe the smuggler. And when Mr. Martin, 
the inspector in command of the expedition, 
was ordered to take with him Mr. Orvay Lafarge 
and five men, “ effectively armed,” it was sup- 
posed by the romantic Minister that the matter 
was as good as done. 

What Mr. Orvay Lafarge did when he got the 
word was to go straight to his hat-peg, then leave 
the office, walk to the little club where he spent 
leisure hours — called office hours by people who 
wished to be precise as well as suggestive — sit 
down, and raise a glass to his lips. After which 
he threw himself back in his chair and said : 
“Well, I’m particularly damned !” A few hours 
later they were away on their doubtful exploit. 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 367 
II. The Defence. 

On the afternoon of the second day after she 
left Labrador, the Ninety-Nine came rippling 
near Isle of Fires, not sixty miles from her des- 
tination, catching a fair wind on her quarter off 
the land. Tarboe was in fine spirits, Joan was 
as full of song as a canary, and Bissonnette was 
as busy watching her as in keeping the nose of 
the Ninety-Nine pointing for Cap de Gloire. 
Tarboe was giving the sail full to the wind, and 
thinking how he would just be able to reach 
Angel Point and get his treasure housed before 
mass in the morning. 

Mass ! How many times had he laughed as 
he sat in church and heard the cure have his 
gentle fling at smuggling ! To think that the 
hidingplace for his liquor was the unused, al- 
most unknown, cellar of that very church, built 
a hundred years before as a refuge from the 
Indians, which he had reached by digging a 
tunnel from the shore to its secret passage ! 
That was why the customs officers never found 
anything at Angel Point, and that was why 
Tarboe much loved going to mass. He some- 
times thought he could catch the flavor of the 
brands as he leaned his forehead on the seat 
before him. But this time he would go to mass 


368 An Adventurer of the North 

with a fine handful of those gold pieces in his 
pocket, just to keep him in a commendable 
mood. He laughed out loud at the thought of 
doing so within a stone’s throw of a fortune 
and nose-shot of fifty kegs of brandy. 

As he did so, Bissonnette gave a little cry. 
They were coming on to Cap de Gloire at the 
moment, and Tarboe and Joan, looking, saw a 
boat standing off towards the mainland, as if 
waiting for them. Tarboe gave a roar, and 
called to Joan to take the tiller. He snatched a 
glass and levelled it. 

“ A Government tug !” he said, “ and, by the 
Holy Mother, there ’s your tall Lafarge among 
’em, Joan ! I ’d know him by his height miles off.” 

Joan lost colour a trifle and then got courage. 
“ Pshaw ! ” she said, “ what does he want? ” 

“ Want ! Want ! He wants the Ninety-Nine 
and her cargo ; but by the sun of my soul, he ’ll 
get her across the devil’s gridiron ! See here, 
my girl, this ain’t any sport with you aboard. 
Bissonnette and I could make a stand for it 
alone, but what ’s to become of you ? I do n’t 
want you mixed up in the mess.” 

The girl was eyeing the Government boat. 
“ But I ’m in it, and I can’t be out of it, and I 
do n’t want to be out now that I am in. Let 
me see the glass.” She took it in one hand. 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 369 

** Yes, it must be M’sieu’ Lafarge,” she said, 
frowning. “ He might have stayed ou^of this.” 

“ When he ’s got orders, he has to go,” an- 
swered her father ; “ but he must look out, for a 
gun is a gun, and I do n’t pick and choose. Be- 
sides, I ’ve no contraband this cruise, and I ’ll 
let no one stick me up.” 

“ There are six or seven of them,” said Joan 
debatingly. 

“Bring her up to the wind,” shouted Tarboe 
to Bissonnette. The mainsail closed up several 
points, the Ninety-Nine slackened her pace and 
edged in closer to the land. “ Now, my girl,” 
said Tarboe, “this is how it stands : If we fight, 
there ’s some one sure to be hurt, and if I ’m hurt 
where ’ll you be? ” 

Bissonnette interposed: “We’ve got noth- 
ing contraband. The gold is ours.” 

“Trust that crew — but no!” cried Tarboe, 
with an oath. “ The Government would hold 
the rhino for possible owners, and then give it 
to a convent or something. They shan’t put 
foot here. They ’ve said war, and they ’ll get it! 
They ’re signalling us to stop, and they ’re bear- 
ing down. There goes a shot ! ” 

The girl had been watching the Government 
boat coolly. Now that it began to bear on she 
an wered her father’s question, 


370 An Adventurer of the North 

“ Captain,” she said, like a trusted mate, 
“we’ll bluff them.” Her eyes flashed with the 
intelligence of war. “ Here, quick, I ’ll take the 
tiller. They have n’t seen Bissonnette yet, he 
sits low. Call all hands on deck — shout! Then, 
see: Loce will go down to the middle hatch, get 
a gun, come up with it on his shoulder, and 
move to the fo’castle. Then he ’ll drop down 
the fo’castle hatch, get along to the middle 
hatch, and come up again with the gun, now 
with his cap, now without it, now with his coat, 
now without it. He ’ll do that till we ’ve got 
twenty or thirty men on deck. They ’ll think 
we ’ve been laying for them, and they ’ll not 
come on — you seel ” 

Tarboe ripped out an oath. “It’s a great 
game,” he said, and a moment afterwards, in re- 
sponse to his roars, Bissonnette came up the 
hatch with his gun showing bravely; then again 
and again, now with his cap, now without, now 
with his coat, now with none, anon with a tar- 
paulin over his shoulders grotesquely. Mean- 
while Tarboe trained his one solitary little 
cannon on the enemy, roaring his men into 
place. 

From the tug it seemed that a large and well- 
armed crew were ranging behind the bulwarks 
of the Ninety-Nine. Mr. Martin, the inspector. 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 371 

saw with alarm Bissonnette’s constantly appear- 
ing rifle. 

“ They ’ve arranged a plant for us, Mr. La- 
farge. What do you think we ’d better do?” he 
said. 

Fight ! ” answered Lafarge laconically. He 
wished to put himself on record, for he was 
the only one on board who saw through the 
ruse. 

“ But I ’ve counted at least twenty men, all 
armed, and we ’ve only five.” 

“As you please, sir,” said Lafarge bluntly, 
angry at being tricked, but inwardly glad to be 
free of the business, for he pictured to himself 
that girl at the tiller — he had seen her as she 
went aft — in a police court at Quebec. Yet his 
instinct for war and his sense of duty impelled 
him to say, “ Still, sir, fight.” 

“No, no, Mr. Lafarge,” excitedly said his 
chief. “I cannot risk it. We must go back for 
more men and bring along a Gatling. Slow 
down! ” he called. 

Lafarge turned on his heel with an oath, and 
stood watching the Ninety-Nine. 

“ She’ll laugh at me till I die! ” he said to 
himself presently, as the tug turned up the 
stream and pointed for Quebec. “ Well, I ’m 
jiggered!” he added, as a cannon shot came 


372 


An Adventurer of the North 


ringing over the water after them. He was cer- 
tain also that he heard loud laughter. No doubt 
he was right; for as the tug hurried on, Tarboe 
ran to Joan, hugged her like a bear, and roared 
till he ached. Then she paid out the sheet, they 
clapped on all sail, and travelled in the track of 
the enemy. 

Tarboe’s spirit was roused. He was not dis- 
posed to let his enemy off on even such terms, 
so he now turned to Joan and said: “What say 
you to a chase of the gentleman?” 

Joan was in a mood for such a dare-devil ad- 
venture. For three people, one of whom was a 
girl, to give chase to a well-manned, well-armed 
Government boat was too good a relish to be 
missed. Then, too, it had just occurred to her 
that a parley would be amusing, particularly if 
she and Lafarge were the truce-bearers. So she 
said: “ That is very good.” 

“ Suppose they should turn and fight ? ” sug- 
gested Bissonnette. 

“ That ’s true — here ’s Joan,” agreed Tarboe. 

“But see,” .said Joan. “If we chase them 
and call upon them to surrender — and after all, 
we can prove that we had nothing contraband — 
what a splendid game it ’ll be ! ” Mischief 
flickered in her eyes. 

“ Good ! ” said Tarboe. “ Tomorrow I 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 373 

shall be a rich man, and then they ’ll not dare to 
come again.” 

So saying, he gave his sail to the wind, and 
away the Ninety-Nine went after the one ewe 
lamb of the Government. 

Mr. Martin saw her coming, and gave word 
for all steam. It would be a pretty game, for 
the wind was in Tarboe’s favour, and the gen- 
eral advantage was not greatly with the tug. 
Mr. Martin was now anxious indeed to get out 
of the way of the smuggler. Lafarge made 
one restraining effort, then settled into an iron- 
ical mood. Yet a half-dozen times he was in- 
clined to blurt out to Martin what he believed 
was the truth. A man, a boy, and a girl to 
bluff them that way ! In his bones he felt that 
it was the girl who was behind this thing. Of 
one matter he was sure — they had no contra- 
band stuff on board, or Tarboe would not have 
brought his daughter along. He could not 
understand their attitude, for Tarboe would 
scarcely have risked the thing out of mere 
bravado. Why not call a truce ? Perhaps he 
could solve the problem. They were keeping a 
tolerably safe distance apart, and there was no 
great danger of the Ninety-Nine overhauling 
them, even if it so willed, but Mr. Martin did 
not know that. 


374 An Adventurer of the North 

What he said to his chief had its effect, and 
soon there was a white flag flying on the 
tug. It was at once answered with a white 
handkerchief of Joan’s. Then the tug slowed 
up, the Ninety-Nine came on gaily, and at a 
good distance came up to the wind and stood 
off. 

“ What do you want ? ” asked Tarboe through 
his speaking-tube. 

A parley,” called Mr. Martin. 

“ Good ; send an officer,” answered Tarboe. 

A moment after, Lafarge was in a boat row- 
ing over to meet another boat rowed by Joan 
alone, who, dressed in a suit of Bissonnette’s, 
had prevailed on her father to let her go. 

The two boats nearing each other, Joan 
stood up, saluting, and Lafarge did the same. 

“ Good-day, m ’sieu’,” said Joan, with as- 
sumed brusqueness, mischief lurking about her 
mouth. ‘‘What do you want ? ” 

“Good-day, monsieur; I did not expect to 
confer with you.” 

“M’sieu’,” said Joan, with well-acted dignity, 
“ if you prefer to confer with the captain or Mr. 
Bissonette, whom I believe you know in the 
matter of a pail, and — ” 

“ No, no ; pardon me, monsieur,” said Lafarge 
more eagerly than was good for the play, “ I am 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 375 

glad to confer with you, you will understand — 
you will understand — ” He paused. 

“What will I understand?” 

“You will understand that I understand!” 
Lafarge waved meaningly towards the Ninety- 
Nine, but it had no effect at all. Joan would not 
give the game over into his hands. 

“That sounds like a charade or a puzzle 
game. We are gentlemen on a serious errand, 
are n’t we? ” 

“Yes,” answered Lafarge, “perfect gentle- 
men on a perfectly serious errand! ” 

“Very well, m’sieu’. Have you come to sur- 
render?” 

The splendid impudence of the thing stunned 
Lafarge, but he said : “ I suppose one or the 
other ought to surrender, and naturally,” he 
added, with point, “it should be the weaker.” 

“Very well. Our captain is willing to con- 
sider conditions. You came down on us to take 
us — a quiet craft sailing in free waters. You 
attack us without cause. We summon all hands, 
and you run. We follow, you ask for truce. It 
is granted. We are not hard, no! We only 
want our rights. Admit them; we ’ll make sur- 
render easy, and the matter is over.” 

Lafarge gasped. She was forcing his hand. 
She would not understand his oblique sugges- 


3^6 An Adventurer of the North 

tions. He saw only one way now, and that was 
to meet her, boast for boast. 

“I haven’t come to surrender,” he said, 
“but to demand.” 

“ M’sieu’,” Joan said grandly, “ there’s noth- 
ing more to say. Carry word to your captain 
that we ’ll overhaul him by sundown, and sink 
him before supper.” 

Lafarge burst out laughing. 

“Well, by the Lord, but you’re a swash- 
buckler, Joan — ” 

“ M’sieu’—! ” 

“O, nonsense! I tell you, nonsense! Let’s 
have over with this, my girl. You ’re the clev- 
erest woman on the continent, but there ’s a 
limit to everything. Here, tell me now, and if 
you answer me straight I ’ll say no more.” 

“ M’sieu’, I am here to consider conditions, 
not to — ” 

“Oh, for God’s sake, Joan! Tell me now, 
have you got anything contraband on board? 
There ’ll be a nasty mess about the thing, for me 
and all of us, and why can ’t we compromise ? I 
tell you honestly we’d have come on if I had n’t 
seen you aboard.” 

Joan turned her head back with a laugh. 
“ My poor m’sieu’ ! You have such bad luck. 
Contraband ? Let me see ? Liquors and wines 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 377 

and tobacco are contraband. Is it not so?’^ 
Lafarge nodded. 

“Is money — gold — contraband?” 

“ Money ? No ; of course not, and you know 
it. Why won’t you be sensible ? You ’re get- 
ting me into a bad hole, and ” 

“ I want to see how you ’ll come out. If you 
come out well ” She paused quaintly. 

“Yes, if I come out well ?” 

“ If you come out very well, and we do not 
sink you before supper, I may ask you to come 
and see me.” 

“ H’m ! Is that all ? After spoiling my 
reputation, I ’m to be let come and see you.” 

“ Is n’t that enough to start with ? What has 
spoiled your reputation ?” 

“A man, a boy and a slip of a girl.” He 
looked meaningly enough at her now. She 
laughed. “ See,” he added, “give me a chance. 
Let me search the Ninety-Nine for contraband, 
that ’s all I have got to do with, and then I can 
keep quiet about the rest. If there ’s no contra- 
band, whatever else there is, I ’ll hold my tongue.” 

“I ’ve told you what there is.” 

He did not understand. “ Will you let me 
search ?” 

Joan’s eyes flashed. “ Once and for all, no, 
Orvay Lafarge ! I am the daughter of a man 


378 An Adventurer of the North 

whom you and your men would have killed or 
put in the dock. He ’s been a smuggler, and I 
know it. Who has he robbed ? Not the poor, 
not the needy, but a rich Government that robs 
also. Well, in the hour when he ceases to be a 
smuggler for ever, armed men come to take him. 
Why did n’t they do so before ? Why so pious 
all at once ? No, I am first the daughter of my 
father, and afterwards ” 

“ And afterwards ? ” 

“What tomorrow may bring forth.” 

Lafarge became very serious. “ I must go 
back. Mr. Martin is signalling, and your father 
is calling. I do not understand, but you ’re the 
one woman in the world for my money, and I ’m 
ready to stand by that and leave the customs to- 
morrow if need be.” 

Joan’s eyes blazed, her cheek was afire. 
“Leave it today. Leave it now. Yes; that’s 
my one condition. If you want me, and you say 
you do, come aboard the Ninety-Nine^ and for 
today be one of us — tomorrow what you will.” 

“What I will ? What I will, Joan ? Do you 
mean it ?” 

“Yes. Pshaw ! Your duty? Do n’t I know 
how the Ministers and the officers have done 
their duty at Quebec ? It ’s all nonsense. You 
must make your choice once for all now.” 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 379 

Lafarge stood a moment thinking. “Joan, 
I ’ll do it. I ’d go hunting in hell at your bid- 
ding. But see. Everything ’s changed. I 
could n’t fight against you, but I can fight for 
you. All must be open now. You ’ve said 
there ’s no Contraband. Well, I ’ll tell Mr. Mar- 
tin so, but I ’ll tell him also that you ’ve only a 
crew of two — ” 

“Of three, now!” 

“ Of three ! I will do my duty in that, then 
resign and come over to you, if I can.” 

“ If you can ? You mean that they may fire 
on you ? ” 

“ I can ’t tell what they may do. But I must 
deal fair.” 

Joan’s face was grave. “Very well, I will 
wait for you here.” 

“ They might hit you.” 

“ But no. They can ’t hit a wall. Go on, my 
dear.” 

They saluted, and, as Lafarge turned away, 
Joan said, with a little mocking laugh, “Tell 
him that he must surrender, or we ’ll sink him 
before supper.” 

Lafarge nodded, and drew away quickly to- 
wards the tug. His interview with Mr. Martin 
was brief, and he had tendered his resignation, 
though it was disgracefully informal, and was 


380 An Adventurer of the North 

over the side of the boat again and rowing 
quickly away before his chief recovered his 
breath. Then Mr. Martin got a large courage. 
He called to his men to fire when Lafarge was 
about two hundred and fifty feet from the tug. 
The shots rattled about him. He turned round 
coolly and called out, “ Coward — we ’ll sink you 
before supper ! ” 

A minute afterwards there came another shot, 
and an oar dropped from his hand. But now 
Joan was rowing rapidly towards him, and pres- 
ently was alongside. 

“ Quick, jump in here,” she said. He did so, 
and she rowed on quickly. Tarboe did not un- 
derstand, but now his blood was up, and as 
another volley sent bullets dropping around the 
two he gave the Ninety-Nine to the wind, and 
she came bearing down smartly to them. In a 
few moments they were safely on board, and 
Joan explained. Tarboe grasped Lafarge’s un- 
maimed hand — the other Joan was caring for — 
and swore that fighting was the only thing left 
now. 

Mr. Martin had said the same, but when he 
saw the Ninety-Nine determined, menacing, and 
coming on, he became again uncertain, and 
presently gave orders to make for the lighthouse 
on the opposite side of the river. He could get 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 381 

over first, for the Ninety-Nine would not have 
the wind so much in her favor, and there en- 
trench himself, for even yet Bissonnette amply 
multiplied was in his mind, — Lafarge had not 
explained that away. He was in the neighbor- 
hood of some sunken rocks of which he and his 
man at the wheel did not know accurately, and 
in making what he thought was a clear channel 
he took a rock with great force, for they were 
going full steam ahead. Then came confusion, 
and in getting out the one boat it was swamped 
and a man nearly drowned. Meanwhile the tug 
was fast sinking. 

While they were throwing off their clothes, 
the Ninety-nine came down, and stood off. On 
one hand was the enemy, on the other the water, 
with the shore half a mile distant. 

‘‘ Do you surrender? ” called out Tarboe. 

‘‘ Can’t we come aboard without that?” feebly 
urged Mr. Martin. 

‘‘ I ’ll see you damned first, Mr. Martin. 
Come quick, or I ’ll give you what for.” 

We surrender,” answered the officer gently. 

A few minutes later he and his men were on 
board, with their rifles stacked in a corner at 
Bissonnette’s hand. 

Then Tarboe brought the Ninety-Nine close 
to the wreck, and with his little cannon put a 


382 An Adventurer of the North 

ball into her. This was the finish. She shook 
her nose, shivered, shot down like a duck, and 
was gone. 

Mr. Martin was sad even to tears. 

“Now, my beauties,” said Tarboe, “now that 
I ’ve got you safe, I ’ll show you the kind of 
cargo I ’ve got.” 

A moment afterwards he hoisted a keg on 
deck. “ Think that ’s whisky ? ” he asked. 
“ Lift it, Mr. Martin.” Mr. Martin obeyed. 
“ Shake it,” he added. Mr. Martin did so. 
“ Open it, Mr. Martin.” He held out a hatchet- 
hammer. The next moment a mass of gold 
pieces yellowed to their eyes. Mr. Martin fell 
back, breathing hard. 

“Is that contraband, Mr. Martin?” 

“ Treasure-trove,” humbly answered the 
stricken officer. 

“That’s it, and in a month, Mr. Martin, I’ll 
be asking the chief of your department to din- 
ner.” 

Meanwhile Lafarge saw how near he had been 
to losing a wife and a fortune. Arrived off Isle 
of Days, Tarboe told Mr. Martin and his men 
that if they said “ treasure-trove ” till they left 
the island their lives would not be worth “ a 
tinker’s damn.” When they had sworn, he took 
them to Angel Point, fed them royally, gave 


The Cruise of the Ninety-Nine 383 

them excellent liquor to drink, and sent them in 
a fishing-smack with Bissonnette to Quebec, 
where arriving, they told strange tales. 

Bissonnette bore a letter to a certain banker 
in Quebec, who already had done business with 
Tarboe, and next midnight Tarboe himself, with 
Gobal, Lafarge, Bissonnette, and another, came 
knocking at the banker’s door, each carrying a 
keg on his shoulder, and armed to the teeth. 
And, what was singular, two stalwart police-offi- 
cers walked behind with comfortable and ap- 
proving looks. 

A month afterwards Lafarge and Joan were 
married at the parish church at Isle of Days, and 
it was said that Mr. Martin, who, for some 
strange reason, was allowed to retain his position 
in the customs, sent a present. The wedding 
ended with a sensation, for just as the benedic- 
tion was pronounced a loud report was heard 
beneath the floor of the church. There was a 
great commotion, but Tarboe whispered in the 
cure’s ear, and he, blushing, announced that it 
was the bursting of a barrel. A few minutes 
afterwards the people of the parish knew the old 
hidingplace of Tarboe’s contraband, and, though 
the cure rebuked them, they roared with laugh- 
ter at the knowledge. 

“ So droll, so droll, our Tarboe there ! ” they 


384 An Adventurer of the North 

shouted, for already they began to look upon 
him as their seigneur. 

In time the curd forgave him also. 

Tarboe seldom left Isle of Days, save when 
he went to visit his daughter in St. Louis street, 
Quebec, not far from the Parliament House, 
where Orvay Lafarge is a member of the Minis- 
try. The ex-smuggler was a member of the 
Assembly for three months, but after defeating 
his own party on a question of tariff, he gave a 
portrait of himself to the Chamber and threw 
his seat into the hands of his son-in-law. At the 
Belle Chatelaine, where he often goes, he some- 
times asks Bissonnette to play The Demoiselle 
with the Scarlet Hose.” 


A Romany of the Snows 

I 

When old Throng the trader, trembling with 
sickness and misery, got on his knees to Cap- 
tain Halby and groaned, “She didn’t want to 
go ; they dragged her off ; you ’ll fetch her 
back, won’t ye ? — she always had a fancy for 
you, cap’n,” Pierre shrugged a shoulder and 
said: 

“ But you stole her when she was in her 
rock-a-by, my Throng, — you and your Man- 
ette.” 

“ Like a match she was — no bigger,” con- 
tinued the old man. “ Lord, how that step- 
mother bully-ragged her, and her father did n’t 
care a darn. He ’d half a dozen others — Man- 
ette and me had n’t none. We took her and 
used her like as if she was an angel, and we 
brought her off up here. Have n’t we set 
store by her ? Was n’t it ’cause we was lonely 
an’ loved her we took her ? Has n’t everybody 
stood up and said there was n’t anyone like her 
in the north ? Ain’t I done fair by her always 

385 


386 An Adventurer of the North 

— ain’t I ? An’ now, when this cough ’s eatin’ 
my life out, and Manette ’s gone, and there ain’t 
a soul but Due the trapper to put a blister on 
to me, them brutes ride up from over the bor- 
der, call theirselves her brothers, an’ drag her 
off !” 

He was still on his knees. Pierre reached 
over and lightly kicked a moccasined foot. 

“Get up, Jim Throng,” he said. “Holy ! do 
you think the law moves because an old man 
cries ? Is it in the statutes ? — that ’s what the 
law says. Does it come within the act ? Is it 
a trespass ? — an assault and battery ? — a breach 
of the peace ? — a misdemeanor ? Victoria — 
So and So : that ’s how the law talks. Get on 
your knees to Father Corraine, not to Captain 
Halby, Jimmy Throng ! ” 

Pierre spoke in a half-sinister, ironical way, 
for between him and Captain Halby’s Riders of 
the Plains there was no good feeling. More 
than once he had come into conflict with them 
— more than once had they laid their hands on 
him — and taken them off again in due time. 
He had foiled them as to men they wanted ; he 
had defied them — but he had helped them, too, 
when it seemed right to him ; he had sided 
with them once or twice when to do so was 
perilous to himself. He had sneered at them, 


A Romany of the Snows 387 

he did not like them, nor they him. The sum 
of it was, he thought them brave — and stupid ; 
and he knew that the law erred as often as it 
set things right. 

The trader got up and stood between the 
two men, coughing njuch, his face straining, 
his eyes bloodshot, as he looked anxiously from 
Pierre to Halby. He was the sad wreck of a 
strong man. Nothing looked strong about him 
now save his head, which, with its long grey 
hair, seemed badly balanced by the thin neck, 
through which the terrible cough was hacking. 

“Only half a lung left,” he stammered, as 
soon as he could speak, “an’ Due can’t fix the 
boneset, camomile, and whiskey as she could. 
An’ he waters the whiskey — curse — his — soul !” 
The last three words were spoken through 
another spasm of coughing, “An’ the blister — 
how he mucks the blister !” 

Pierre sat back on the table, laughing noise- 
lessly, his white teeth shining. Halby, with 
one foot on a bench, was picking at the fur on 
his sleeve thoughtfully. His face was a little 
drawn, his lips were tight-pressed, and his eyes 
had a light of excitement. Presently he 
straightened himself, and after a half-malicious 
look at Pierre, he said to Throng : 

“Where are they, do you say ?” 


388 An Adventurer of the North 

“They’re at” — the old man coughed hard 
— “at Fort O’Battle.” 

“What are they doing there ?” 

“Waitin’ till spring, when they ’ll fetch their 
cattle up an’ settle there.” 

“They want — Lydia — to keep house for 
them?” 

The old man writhed. 

“Yes, God’s sake, that’s it! An’ they want 
Liddy to marry a devil called Borotte, with a 
thousand cattle or so — Pito the courier told me 
yesterday. Pito saw her, an’ he said she was 
white like a sheet, an’ called out to him as he 
went by. Only half a lung I got, an’ her 
boneset and camomile ’d save it for a bit, 
mebbe — mebbe 1 ” 

“It’s clear,” said Halby, “that they tres- 
passed, and they have n’t proved their right to 
her.” 

Tonnerre! what a thinker!” said Pierre, 
mocking. 

Halby did not notice. His was a solid sense 
of responsibility. 

“She is of age?” he half asked, half mused. 

“She ’s twenty-one,” answered the old man, 
with difficulty. 

“Old enough to set the world right,” sug- 
gested Pierre, still mocking. 


A Romany of the Snows 389 

“She was forced away, she regarded you as 
her natural protector, she believed you her 
father : they broke the law,” said the soldier. 

“There was Moses, and Solomon, and Caesar, 
and Socrates, and now . . . murmured 
Pierre in assumed abstraction. 

A red spot burned on Halby’s high cheek- 
bone for a minute, but he persistently kept his 
temper. 

“I’m expected elsewhere,” he said at last. 
“I ’m only one man, I wish I could go today — 
even alone. But — ” 

“ But you have a heart,” said Pierre. “ How 
wonderful — a heart! And there’s the half a 
lung, and the boneset and camomile tea, and the 
blister, and the girl with an eye like the spot of 
rainbow, and the sacred law in a Remington 
rifle! Well, well ! And to do it in the early 
morning — to wait in the shelter of the trees till 
some go to look after the horses, then enter the 
house, arrest those inside, and lay low for the 
rest.” 

Halby looked over at Pierre astonished. 
Here was raillery and good advice all in a piece. 

“It isn’t wise to go alone, for if there’s 
trouble and I should go down, who ’s to tell the 
truth? Two could do it; but one — no, it isn’t 
wise, though it would look smart enough.” 


390 An Adventurer of the North 

“Who said to go alone?” asked Pierre, 
scrawling on the table with a burnt match. 

“ I have no men.” 

Pierre looked up at the wall. 

“Throng has a good Snider there,” he said. 

“Bosh! Throng can’t go.” 

The old man coughed and strained. 

“If it was n’t — only — half a lung, and I could 
carry the boneset ’long with us.” 

Pierre slid off the table, came to the old man, 
and taking him by the arms, pushed him gently 
into a chair. 

“Sit down; don’t be a fool. Throng,” he 
said. Then he turned to Halby : “You’re a 
magistrate — make me a special constable; I ’ll 
go, monsieur le capitaine — of no company.” 

Halby stared. He knew Pierre’s bravery, his 
ingenuity and daring. But this was the last 
thing he expected: that the malicious, railing 
little half-breed would work with him and the 
law. Pierre seemed to understand his thoughts, 
for he said: “ It is not for you. I am sick for 
adventure, and then there is mademoiselle — such 
a finger she has for a ven’son pudding.” 

Without a word Halby wrote on a leaf in his 
notebook, and presently handed the slip to 
Pierre. “That ’s your commission as a special 


A Romany of the Snows 391 

constable,” he said, “and here ’s the seal on it.” 
He handed over a pistol. 

Pierre raised his eyebrows at it, but Halby 
continued: “ It has the Government mark. But 
you ’d better bring Throng’s rifle, too.” 

Throng sat staring at the two men, his hands 
nervously shifting on his knees. “Tell Liddy,” 
he said, “that the last batch of bread was sour — 
Due ain’t no good — an’ that I ain’t had no relish 
sence she left. Tell her the cough gits lower 
down all the time. ’Member when she tended 
that felon o’ yourn, Pierre?” 

Pierre looked at a scar on his finger and nod- 
ded: “She cut it too young ; but she had the 
nerve! When do you start, Captain? It’s an 
eighty-mile ride.” 

“At once,” was the reply. “We can sleep 
to-night in the Jim-a-long-Jo ” (a hut which the 
Company had built between two distant posts), 
“ and get there at dawn day after tomorrow. 
The snow is light and we can travel quick. I 
have a good horse, and you — ” 

“ I have my black Tophet. He ’ll travel with 
your roan as on one snaffle-bar. That roan — 
you know where he come from ? ” 

“ From the Dolright stud, over the border.” 

“ That ’s wrong. He come from Greystop’s 


392 An Adventurer of the North 

paddock, where my Tophet was foaled ; they 
are brothers. Yours was stole and sold to the 
Gover’ment; mine was bought by good hard 
money. The law the keeper of stolen goods, 
eh ? But these two will go cinch to cinch all 
the way, like two brothers — like you and me.” 

He could not help the touch of irony in his 
last words ; he saw the amusing side of things, 
and all humour in him had a strain of the sar- 
donic. 

‘‘ Brothers-in-law for a day or two,” answered 
Halby drily. 

Within two hours they were ready to start. 
Pierre had charged Due the incompetent upon 
matters for the old man’s comfort, and had him- 
self, with a curious sort of kindness, steeped the 
boneset and camomile in whisky, and set a cup 
of it near his chair. Then he had gone up to 
Throng’s bedroom and straightened out and 
shook and “ made ” the corn-husk bed, which 
had gathered into lumps and rolls. 

Before he came down he opened a door near 
by and entered another room, shutting the door, 
and sitting down on a chair. A stove-pipe 
ran through the room, and it was warm, 
though the window was frosted and the world 
seemed shut out. He looked round slowly, 
keenly, interested. There was a dressing-table 


393 


A Romany of the Snows 

made of an old box ; it was covered with pink 
calico, and muslin over this. A cheap looking- 
glass on it was draped with muslin and tied at 
the top with a bit of pink ribbon. A common 
bone comb lay near the glass, and, beside it, a 
beautiful brush with an ivory back and handle. 
This was the only expensive thing in the room. 
He wondered, but did not go near it — yet. 

There was a little eight-day clock on a 
bracket which had been made by hand — paste- 
board darkened with umber and varnished ; a 
tiny little set of shelves made of the wood of 
cigar-boxes; and — alas!, the shifts of poverty 
to be gay ! — an easy-chair made of the staves of 
a barrel and covered with poor chintz. Then 
there was a photograph or two in little frames 
made from the red cedar of cigar-boxes, with 
decorations of putty, varnished, and a long 
panel screen of birch-bark of Indian workman- 
ship. Some dresses hung behind the door. 
The bedstead was small, the frame was of hick- 
ory, with no footboard, ropes making the sup- 
port for the husk tick. Across the foot lay a 
bedgown and a pair of stockings. 

Pierre looked long, at first curiously ; but 
after a little his forehead gathered and his lips 
drew in a little, as if he had a twinge of pain. 
He got up, went over near the bed, and picked 


394 Adventurer of the North 

up a hairpin. Then he came back to the chair 
and sat down, turning it about in his fingers, 
still looking abstractedly at the floor. 

“ Poor Lucy ! ” he said presently ; “ the poor 
child ! Ah ! what a devil I was then — so long 
ago ! ” 

This solitary room — Lydia’s — had brought 
back the time he went to the room of his own 
wife, dead by her own hand, after an attempt to 
readjust the broken pieces of life, and sat and 
looked at the place which had been hers, remem- 
bering how he had left her with her wet face 
turned to the wall, and never saw her again till 
she was set free forever. Since that time he had 
never sat in a room sacred to a woman alone. 

‘‘What a fool, what a fool, to think !” he said 
at last, standing up ; “ but this girl must be 
saved. She must have her home here again.” 

Unconsciously he put the hairpin in his 
pocket, walked over to the dressing-table and 
picked up the hair brush. On its back was the 
legend, “ L. T. from C. H. ” He gave a whistle. 

“So— so?” he said, “‘C. H.’ M’sieu’ le 
capitaine, is it like that ? ” 

A year before, Lydia had given Captain 
Halby a dollar to buy her a hair-brush at Winni- 
peg, and he had brought her one worth ten 
dollars. She had beautiful hair, and what pride 


395 


A Romany of the Snows 

she had in using this brush ! Every Sunday 
morning she spent a long time in washing, curl- 
ing, and brushing her hair, and every night she 
tended it lovingly, so that it was a splendid rich 
brown like her eye, coiling nobly above her 
plain, strong face, with its good color. 

Pierre, glancing in the glass, saw Captain 
Halby’s face looking over his shoulder. It 
startled him, and he turned round. There was 
the face looking out from a photograph that 
hung on the wall in the recess where the bed was. 
He noted now that the likeness hung where the 
girl could see it the last thing at night and the 
first thing in the morning. 

“ So far as that, eh ! ” he said. “ And m’sieu’ 
is a gentleman, too. We shall see what he will 
do. He has his chance now once for all.” 

He turned, came to the door, softly opened 
it, passed out and shut it, then descended the 
stairs, and in half an hour was at the door with 
Captain Halby, ready to start. It was an exqui- 
site winter day, even in its bitter coldness. The 
sun was shining clear and strong, all the plains 
glistened and looked like quicksilver, and the 
vast blue cup of sky seemed deeper than it had 
ever been. But the frost ate the skin like an 
acid, and when Throng came to the door Pierre 
drove him back instantly from the air. 


396 An Adventurer of the North 

“ I only — wanted — to say — to Liddy,” hacked 
the old man, “that I’m thinkin’ — a little 
m’lasses’d kinder help — the boneset an’ camo- 
mile. Tell her that the cattle ’ll all be hers — 
an’ — the house, an’ I ain’t got no one but — ” 

But Pierre pushed him back and shut the 
door, saying : “ I ’ll tell her what a fool you are 
Jimmy Throng.” 

The old man, as he sat down awkwardly in 
his chair, with Due stolidly lighting his pipe and 
watching him, said to himself : “ Yes, I be a 
durn fool; I be, I be!” over and over again. 
And when the dog got up from near the stove 
and came near to him, he added : “I be, Touser; 
I be a durn fool, for I ought to ha’ stole two or 
three, an’ then I ’d not be alone, an’ nothin’ but 
sour bread an’ pork to eat. I ought to ha’ stole 
three.” 

“ Ah, Manette ought to have give you some 
of your own, it ’s true, that ! ” said Due stolidly. 
“You never was a real father, Jim.” 

“ Liddy got to look like me ; she got to look 
like Manette and me, I tell ye ! ” said the old 
man hoarsely. 

Due laughed in his stupid way. “ Look like 
you 1 Look like you, Jim, with a face to turn 
milk sour! Ho, ho!” 

Throng rose, his face purple with anger, and 


397 


A Romany of the Snows 

made as if to catch Due by the throat, but a fit 
of coughing seized him, and presently blood 
showed on his lips. Due with a rough gentle- 
ness wiped off the blood and put the whisky and 
herbs to the sick man’s lips, saying in a fatherly 
way : 

“ For why you do like that ? You ’re a fool, 
Jimmy !” 

“ I be, I be,” said the old man in a whisper, 
and let his hand rest on Due’s shoulder. 

“ I ’ll fix the bread sweet next time, Jimmy.” 

“ No, no,” said the husky voice peevishly. 
“ She ’ll do it — Liddy ’ll do it. Liddy’s corn- 
in’.” 

“ All right, Jimmy ! All right ! ” 

After a moment Throng shook his head feebly 
and said, scarcely above a whisper : 

“ But \ be 2. durn fool — when she ’s not here.” 

Due nodded and gave him more whisky and 
herbs. 

“ My feet ’s cold,” said the old man, and Due 
wrapped a bearskin round his legs. 

II 

For miles Pierre and Halby rode without a 
word. Then they got down and walked for a 
couple of miles, to bring the blood into their 
legs again. 


398 An Adventurer of the North 

“The old man goes to By-by hientot'' said 
Pierre at last. 

“You do n’t think he’ll last long?” 

“ Maybe ten days; maybe one. If we do n’t 
get the girl, out goes his torchlight straight.” 

“ She ’s been very good to him.” 

“ He’s been on his knees to her all her life.” 

“There’ll be trouble out of this.” 

“Pshaw! The girl is her own master.” 

“I mean some one will probably get hurt over 
there.” He nodded in the direction of Fort 
O’Battle. 

“ That ’s in the game. The girl is worth 
fighting for, eh? ” 

“ Of course, and the law must protect her. 
It ’s a free country.” 

“So true, my captain,” murmured Pierre drily. 
“ It is wonderful what a man will do for the law.” 

The tone struck Halby. Pierre was scanning 
the horizon abstractedly. 

“You are always hitting at the law,” he said. 
“ Why do you stand by it now? ” 

“ For the same reason as yourself.” 

“ What is that? ” 

“ She has your picture in her room, she has 
my lucky dollar in her pocket.” 

Halby’s face flushed, and then he turned and 
looked steadily into Pierre’s eyes. 


399 


A Romany of the Snows 

“ We’d better settle this thing at once. If 
you’re going to Fort O’Battle because you’ve 
set your fancy there, you’d better go back now. 
That’s straight. You and I can’t sail in the 
same boat. I’ll go alone, so give me the pistol.” 

Pierre laughed softly, and waved the hand 
back. 

“T’sh! What a high-cock-a-lorum! You 
want to do it all yourself — to fill the eye of the 
girl alone, and be tucked away to By-by for your 
pains — mais, quelle folk! See: you go for law 
and love; I go for fun and Jimmy Throng. The 
girl! Pshaw! she would come out right in the 
end, without you or me. But the old man with 
half a lung — that’s different. He must have 
sweet bread in his belly when he dies, and the 
girl must make it for him. She shall brush her 
hair with the ivory brush by Sunday morning.” 

Halby turned sharply. 

“You’ve been spying!” he said. “You’ve 
been in her room — you — ” 

Pierre put out his hand and stopped the word 
on Halby’s lips. 

“Slow, slow,” he said; “we are both — police 
today. Voila! we must not fight. There is 
Throng and the girl to think of.” Suddenly, 
with a soft fierceness, he added: “ If I looked in 
her room, what of that? In all the north is 


400 An Adventurer of the North 

there a woman to say I wrong her? No! Well, 
what if I carry her room in my eye; does that 
hurt her or you? ” 

Perhaps something of the loneliness of the 
outlaw crept into Pierre’s voice for an instant, 
for Halby suddenly put a hand on his shoulder 
and said : “ Let ’s drop the thing, Pierre.” 

Pierre looked at him musingly. 

“ When Throng is put to By-by what will you 
do ? ” he said. 

I will marry her, if she ’ll have me.” 

“ But she is prairie-born, and you 1 ” 

“ I ’m a prairie-rider.” 

After a moment Pierre said, as if to himself : 
“ So quiet and clean, and the print calico and 
muslin, and the ivory brush 1 ” 

It is hard to say whether he was merely 
working on Halby that he be true to the girl, or 
was himself soft-hearted for the moment. He 
had a curious store of legend and chanson, and 
he had the Frenchman’s power of applying 
them, though he did it seldom. But now he 
said in a half monotone: 

“Have you seen the way I have built my nest ? 

{O brave and tall is the Grand Seigneur 1) 

I have trailed the East, I have searched the West, 

(O clear of eye is the Grand Seigneur!') 

From South and North I have brought the best: 


401 


A Romany of the Snows 

The feathers fine from an eagle’s crest, 

The silken threads from a prince’s vest, 

The warm rose-leaf from a maiden’s breast — 

(O long he bideth, the Grand Seigneur)." 

They had gone scarce a mile farther when 
Pierre, chancing to turn round, saw a horseman 
riding hard after them. They drew up, and soon 
the man — a Rider of the Plains — was beside 
them. He had stopped at Throng’s to find 
Halby, and had followed them. Murder had 
been committed near the border, and Halby was 
needed at once. Halby stood still, numb with 
distress, for there was Lydia. He turned to 
Pierre in dismay. Pierre’s face lighted up with 
the spirit of fresh adventure. Desperate enter- 
prises roused him ; the impossible had a charm 
for him. 

“ I will go to Fort O’Battle,” he said. “Give 
me another pistol.” 

“You cannot do it alone,” said Halby, hope, 
however, in his voice. 

“ I will do it, or it will do me, voildf ” Pierre 
replied. 

Halby passed over a pistol. 

“ I ’ll never forget it, on my honour, if you 
do it,” he said. 

Pierre mounted his horse and said, as if a 
thought had struck him : “ If I stand for the 


402 An Adventurer of the North 

law in this, will you stand against it some time 
for me?” 

Halby hesitated, then said, holding out his 
hand, ‘‘Yes, if it’s nothing dirty.” 

Pierre smiled. “ Clean tit for clean tat,” he 
said, touching Halby’s fingers, and then, with a 
gesture and an au revoir^ put his horse to the 
canter, and soon a surf of snow was rising at two 
points on the prairie, as the Law trailed south 
and east. 

That night Pierre camped in the Jim-a-long- 
Jo, finding there firewood in plenty, and Tophet 
was made comfortable in the lean-to. Within 
another thirty hours he was hid in the woods 
behind Fort O’Battle, having traveled nearly all 
night. He saw the dawn break and the begin- 
ning of sunrise as he watched the Fort, growing 
every moment colder, while his horse trembled 
and whinnied softly, suffering also. At last he 
gave a little grunt of satisfaction, for he saw 
two men come out of the Fort and go to the 
cbrral. He hesitated a minute longer, then 
said : “ I ’ll not wait,” patted his horse’s neck, 
pulled the blanket closer round him, and started 
for the Fort. He entered the yard — it was 
empty. He went to the door of the Fort, 
opened it, entered, shut it, locked it softly, and 
put the key in his pocket. Then he passed 


403 


A Romany of the Snows 

through into a room at the end of the small 
hallway. Three men rose from seats by the fire 
as he did so, and one said: “Hullo! who ’re 
you?” Another added: “It’s Pretty Pierre.” 

Pierre looked at the table laid for breakfast, 
and said: “Where is Lydia Throng ?” 

The elder of the three brothers replied : 
“There’s no Lydia Throng here. There’s 
Lydia Bontoff, though, and in another week 
she ’ll be Lydia something else.” 

“ What does she say about it herself?” 

“ You ’ve no call to know.” 

“ You stole her, forced her from Throng’s — 
her father’s house.” 

“ She was n’t Throng’s ; she was a Bontoff — 
sister of us.” 

“Well, she says Throngs and Throng it’s got 
to be.” 

“ What have you got to say about it ? ” 

At that moment Lydia appeared at the door 
leading from the kitchen. 

“ Whatever she has to say,” answered Pierre. 

“ Who ’re you talking for ? ” 

“ For her, for Throng, for the law.” 

“The law — by gosh, that’s good I You, 
you darned gambler ; you scum 1 ” said Caleb, 
the brother who knew him. 

Pierre showed all the intelligent, resolute 


404 An Adventurer of the North 

coolness of a trained officer of the law. He 
heard a little cry behind him, and stepping 
sideways and yet not turning his back on the 
men, he saw Lydia. 

‘‘Pierre! Pierre!” she said in a half-fright- 
ened way, yet with a sort of pleasure lighting 
up her face ; and she stepped forward to him. 
One of the brothers was about to pull her away, 
but Pierre whipped out his commission. 
“Wait!” he said. “That’s enough. I’m for 
the law; I belong to the mounted police. I 
have come for the girl you stole.” 

The elder brother snatched the paper and 
read. Then he laughed loud and long. “ So 
you’ve come to fetch her away,” he said, “and 
this is how you do it ! ” — he shook the paper. 
“Well, by — ’’suddenly he stopped. “Come,” 
he said, “have a drink, and don’t be a dam’ 
fool. She’s our sister — old Throng stole her — 
and she’s goin’ to marry our partner. Here, 
Caleb, fish out the brandy-wine,” he added to 
his younger brother, who went to a cupboard 
and brought the bottle. 

Pierre, waving the liquor away, said quietly 
to the girl: “You wish to go back to your 
father, to Jimmy Throng?” He then gave her 
Throng’s message, and added : “ He sits there 
rocking in the big chair, and coughing — 


A Romany of the Snows 405 

coughing ! and then there’s the picture on 
the wall upstairs and the little ivory brush — ” 

She put out her hands towards him. “ I hate 
them all here,” she said. “ I never knew them. 
They forced me away. I have no father but 
Jimmy Throng. I will not stay,” she flashed 
out in sudden anger to the others ; “ I ’ll kill 
myself and all of you before I marry that 
Borotte.” 

Pierre could hear a man tramping about up- 
stairs. Caleb knocked on the stove-pipe, and 
called to him to come down. Pierre guessed it 
was Borotte. This would add one more factor 
to the game. He must move at once. He sud- 
denly slipped a pistol into the girl’s hand, and, 
with a quick word to her, stepped towards the 
door. The elder brother sprang between — 
which was what he looked for. By this time 
every man had a weapon showing, snatched from 
wall and shelf. 

Pierre was cool. He said : “ Remember, I 
am for the law. I am not one man. You are 
thieves now ; if you fight and kill, you will get 
the rope, every one. Move from the door, or 
I’ll fire. The girl comes with me.” He had 
heard a door open behind him, now there was 
an oath and a report, and a bullet grazed his 
cheek and lodged in the wall beyond. He dared 


4o 6 An Adventurer of the North 

not turn round, for the other men were facing 
him. He did not move, but the girl did. 
“ Coward ! ” she said, and raised her pistol at 
Borotte, standing with her back against Pierre’s. 

There was a pause, in which no one stirred, 
and then the girl, slowly walking up to Borotte, 
her pistol levelled, said : “You low coward — to 
shoot a man from behind ; and you want to be 
a decent girl’s husband ! These men that say 
they’re my brothers, are brutes, but you’re a 
sneak. If you stir a step. I’ll fire.” 

The cowardice of Borotte was almost ridi- 
culous. He dared not harm the girl, and her 
brothers could not prevent her harming him. 
Here there came a knocking at the front door. 
The other brothers had come and found it 
locked. Pierre saw the crisis, and acted instantly. 
“The girl and I — we will fight you to the 
end,” he said, “ and then what’s left of you the 
law will fight to the end. Come,” he added, 
“the old man can’t live a week. When he’s 
gone then you can try again. She will have 
what he owns. Quick, or I arrest you all, and 
then — ” 

“ Let her go,” said Borotte; “ it ain’t no 
use.” 

Presently the elder brother broke out laugh- 
ing. “ Damned if I thought the girl had the 


407 


A Romany of the Snows 

pluck, an’ damned if I thought Borotte was a 
crawler. Put an eye out of him, Liddy, an’ 
come to your brother’s arms. Here,” he added 
to the others, “ up with your popguns; this 
shindy’s off; and the girl goes back till the old 
man tucks up. Have a drink!” he added to 
Pierre, as he stood his rifle in a corner and came 
to the table. 

In half an hour Pierre and the girl were on 
their way, leaving Borotte quarrelling with the 
brothers, and all drinking heavily. The two 
arrived at Throng’s late the next afternoon. 
There had been a slight thaw during the day, 
and the air was almost soft, water dripping from 
the eaves down the long icicles. 

When Lydia entered, the old man was dozing 
in his chair. The sound of an axe out behind 
the house told where Due was. The whisky- 
and-herbs was beside the sick man’s chair, and 
his feet were wrapped about with bearskins. The 
girl made a little gesture of pain, and then 
stepped softly over and, kneeling, looked into 
Throng’s face. The lips were moving. 

“Dad,” she said, “are you asleep?” 

“I be a durn fool, I be,” he said in a 
whisper, and then he began to cough. She took 
his hands. They were cold, and she rubbed 
them softly. “ I feel so a’mighty holler,” he 


408 An Adventurer of the North 

said, gasping, ‘*an’ that bread’s sour agin.” He 
shook his head pitifully. 

His eyes at last settled on her, and he recog- 
nized her. He broke into a giggling laugh; the 
surprise was almost too much for his feeble mind 
and body. His hands reached and clutched 
hers. “Liddy! Liddy! ” he whispered, then 
added peevishly, “ The bread ’s sour an’ the 
boneset and camomile ’s no good. . . . Ain’t 
to-morrow bakin’-day? ” he added. 

‘‘ Yes, dad,” she said, smoothing his hands. 

“What danged — liars — they be — Liddy! 
You ’re my gel, ain’t ye? ” 

“Yes, dad. I’ll make some boneset liquor 
now.” 

“Yes, yes,” he said, with childish eagerness 
and a weak, wild smile. “ That ’s it — that ’s it.” 

She was about to rise, but he caught her 
shoulder. “ I bin a good dad to ye, hain’t I, 
Liddy? ” he whispered. 

“ Always.” 

“Never had no ma but Manette, did ye?” 

“Never, dad.” 

“What danged liars they be!” he said, 
chuckling. 

She kissed him, and moved away to the fire 
to pour hot water and whisky on the herbs. 

His eyes followed her proudly, shining like 


A Romany of the Snows 409 

wet glasses in the sun. He laughed — such a 
wheezing, soundless laugh ! 

“ He ! he ! he ! I ain’t no — durn — fool — 
bless — the Lord ! ” he said. 

Then the shining look in his eyes became a 
grey film, and the girl turned round suddenly, 
for the long, wheezy breathing had stopped. She 
ran to him, and, lifting up his head, saw the 
look that makes even the fool seem wise in his 
cold stillness. Then she sat down on the floor, 
laid her head against the arm of his chair, and 
wept. 

It was very quiet inside. From without there 
came the twang of an axe, and a man’s voice 
talking to his horse. When the man came in 
he lifted the girl up, and, to comfort her, bade 
her go look at a picture hanging in her little 
room. After she was gone he lifted the body, 
put it on a couch and cared for it. 


The Plunderer 

It was no use : men might come and go be- 
fore her, but Kitty Cline had eyes for only one 
man. Pierre made no show of liking her, and 
thought, at first, that hers was a passing fancy. 
He soon saw differently. There was that look 
in her eyes which burns conviction as deep 
as the furnace from which it comes : the hot, 
shy, hungering look of desire ; most childlike, 
painfully infinite. He would rather have faced 
the cold mouth of a pistol ; for he felt how 
it would end. He might be beyond wish to 
play the lover, but he knew that every man can 
endure being loved. He also knew that some 
are possessed — a dream, a spell, what you will — 
for their life long. Kitty Cline was one of 
these. 

He thought he must go away, but he did not. 
From the hour he decided to stay misfortune be- 
gan. Willie Haslam, the clerk at the Com- 
pany’s Post, had learned a trick or two at cards 
in the east, and imagined that he could, as he 
said himself “roast the cock o’ the roost — 


410 


The Plunderer 


411 

meaning Pierre. He did so for one or two 
evenings, and then Pierre had a sudden increase 
of luck (or design), and the lad, seeing no 
chance of redeeming the I. O. U., representing 
two years’ salary, went down to the house where 
Kitty Cline lived, and shot himself on the door- 
step. 

He had had the misfortune to prefer Kitty to 
the other girls at Guidon Hill — though Nellie 
Sanger would have been as much to him, if 
Kitty had been easier to win. The two things 
together told hard against Pierre. Before, he 
might have gone ; in the face of difficulty he 
certainly would not go. Willie Haslam’s funeral 
was a public function : he was young, innocent- 
looking, handsome, and the people did not 
know what Pierre would not tell now — that he 
had cheated grossly at cards. Pierre was sure, 
before Liddall, the surveyor, told him, that a 
movement was apace to give him trouble — pos- 
sibly fatal. 

“You had better go!” said Liddall; “there’s 
no use tempting Providence.” 

“ They are tempting the devil,” was the cool 
reply; “and that is not all joy, as you shall 
see.” 

He stayed. For a time there was no demon- 
stration on either side. He came and went 


412 An Adventurer of the North 

through the streets, and was found at his usual 
haunts, to observers as cool and nonchalant as 
ever. He was a changed man, however. He 
never got away from the look in Kitty Cline’s 
eyes. He felt the thing wearing on him, and he 
hesitated to speculate on the result ; but he 
knew vaguely that it would end in disaster. 
There is a kind of corrosion which eats the 
granite out of the blood, and leaves fever. 

‘‘What is the worst thing that can happen a 
man, eh?” he said to Liddall one day, after 
having spent a few minutes with Kitty Cline. 

Liddall was an honest man. He knew the 
world tolerably well. In writing once to his 
partner in Montreal he had spoken of Pierre as 
“an admirable, interesting scoundrel.” Once 
when Pierre called him mon and asked 

him to come and spend an evening in his 
cottage, he said : 

“Yes, I will go. But — pardon me — not as 
your friend. Let us be plain with each other. 
I never met a man of your stamp before — ” 

“A professional gambler — yes? BienV* 

“You interest me; I like you; you have 
great cleverness — ” 

“ A priest once told me I had a great brain 
— there is a difference. Well ?” 

“You are like no man I ever met before. 


The Plunderer 


413 


Yours is a life like none I ever knew. I would 
rather talk with you than with any other man in 
the country, and yet — ” 

“ And yet you would not take me to your 
home ? That is all right. I expect nothing. 
I accept the terms. I know what I am and 
what you are. I like men who are square. You 
would go out of your way to do me a good 
turn.” 

It was on his tongue to speak of Kitty Cline, 
but he hesitated : it was not fair to the girl, he 
thought, though what he had intended was for 
her good. He felt he had no right to assume 
that Liddall knew how things were. The 
occasion slipped by. 

But the same matter had been in his mind 
when, later, he asked, “What is the worst thing 
that can happen a man ? ” 

Liddall looked at him long, and then said : 
“To stand between two fires.” 

Pierre smiled: it was an answer after his own 
heart. Liddall remembered it very well in the 
future. 

“What is the thing to do in such a case?” 
Pierre asked. 

“It is not good to stand still.” 

“But what if you are stunned, or do not 
care ? ” 


414 An Adventurer of the North 

“You should care. It is not wise to strain a 
situation.” 

Pierre rose, walked up and down the room 
once or twice, then stood still, his arms folded, 
and spoke in a low tone. “ Once in the Rockies 
I was lost. I crept into a cave at night. I 
knew it was the nest of some wild animal ; but 
I was nearly dead with hunger and fatigue. I 
fell asleep. When I woke — it was towards 
morning — I saw two yellow stars glaring where 
the mouth of the cave had been. They were all 
hate : like nothing you could imagine : passion 
as it is first made — yes. There was also a 
rumbling sound. It was terrible, and yet I was 
not scared. Hate need not disturb you — I am 
a quick shot. I killed that mountain lion, and 
I ate the haunch of deer I dragged from under 
her . . . ” 

He turned now, and, facing the doorway, 
looked out upon the village, to the roof of a house 
which they both knew. “Hate,” he said, “is 
not the most wonderful thing. I saw a woman 
look once as though she could lose the whole 
world — and her own soul. She was a good wo- 
man. The man was bad — most: he never could 
be anything else. A look like that breaks the 
nerve. It is not amusing. In time the man 


The Plunderer 


415 

goes to pieces. But before that comes he is apt 
to do strange things. Eh, so ! ” 

He sat down, and with his finger, wrote mus- 
ingly in the dust upon the table. 

Liddall looked keenly at him, and replied 
more brusquely than he felt: “ Do you think it 
fair to stay — fair to her ? ” 

“What if I should take her with me?” 
Pierre flashed a keen, searching look after the 
words. 

“ It would be useless devilry.” 

“ Let us drink,” said Pierre, as he came to his 
feet quickly ; “ then for the House of Lords ” 
(the new and fashionable tavern). 

They separated in the street, and Pierre went 
to the House of Lords alone. He found a num- 
ber of men gathered before a paper pasted on a 
pillar of the verandah. Hearing his own name, 
he came nearer. A ranchman was reading aloud 
an article from a newspaper printed two hundred 
miles away. The article was headed “A Villain- 
ous Plunderer.” It had been written by some 
one at Guidon Hill. All that was discreditable 
in Pierre’s life it set forth with rude clearness; 
he was credited with nothing pardonable. In 
the crowd there were mutterings unmistakable 
to Pierre. He suddenly came among them. 


4i 6 An Adventurer of the North 

caught a revolver from his pocket, and shot over 
the reader’s shoulder six times into the pasted 
strip of newspaper. 

The men dropped back. They were not pre- 
pared for warlike measures at the moment. 
Pierre leaned his back against the pillar and 
waited. His silence and coolness, together with 
an iron fierceness in his face, held them from 
instant demonstration against him; but he knew 
that he must face active peril soon. He pocketed 
his revolver and went up the hill to the house of 
Kitty Cline’s mother. It was the first time he 
had ever been there. At the door he hesitated, 
but knocked presently, and was admitted by 
Kitty, who, at sight of him, turned faint with 
sudden joy, and grasped the lintel to steady 
herself. 

Pierre quietly caught her about the waist, and 
shut the door. She recovered, and gently dis- 
engaged herself. He made no further advance, 
and they stood looking at each other for a min- 
ute; he, as one who had come to look at some- 
thing good he was never to see again; she as at 
something she hoped to see forever. They had 
never before been where no eyes could observe 
them. He ruled his voice to calmness. 

I am going away,” he said ; “ and I have 
come to say good-bye.” 


The Plunderer 


417 

Her eyes never wavered from his. Her voice 
was scarce above a whisper. 

“ Why do you go ? Where are you going ?” 

“ I have been here too long. I am what they 
call a villain and a plunderer. I am going to — 
mon Dieu^ I do not know.” He shrugged his 
shoulders, and smiled with a sort of helpless dis- 
dain. ^ 

She leaned her hands on the table before her. 
Her voice was still that low, clear murmur. 

“ What people say does n’t matter.” She 
staked her all upon her words. She must speak 
them, though she might hate herself afterwards. 
“ Are you going alone ? ” 

“Where I may have to go I must travel 
alone.” 

He could not meet her eyes now : he turned 
his head away. He almost hoped she would not 
understand. 

“ Sit down,” he added ; “ I want to tell you 
of my life.” 

He believed that telling it as he should, she 
would be horror-stricken, and that the deep 
flame would die out of her eyes. Neither he nor 
she knew how long they sat there, he telling with 
grim precision of the evil life he had led. Her 
hands were clasped before her, and she shud- 


4i 8 An Adventurer of the North 

dered once or twice, so that he paused ; but she 
asked him firmly to go on. 

When all was told he stood up. He could 
not see her face, but he heard her say : 

“You have forgotten many things that were 
not bad. Let me say them.’^ She named things 
that would have done honor to a better man. 
He was standing in the moonlight that came 
through the window. She stepped forward, her 
hands quivering out to him. “ Oh, Pierre,” she 
said, “ I know why you tell me this ; but it makes 
no difference — none. I will go with you where- 
ever you go.” 

He caught her hands in his. She was stronger 
than he was now. Her eyes mastered him. A 
low cry broke from him, and he drew her almost 
fiercely into his arms. 

“ Pierre ! Pierre ! ” was all she could say. 

He kissed her again and again upon the mouth. 
As he did so, he heard footsteps and muffled 
voices without. Putting her quickly from him, 
he sprang towards the door, threw it open, 
closed it behind him, and drew his revolver. A 
half-dozen men faced him. Two bullets whis- 
tled by his head, and lodged in the door. Then 
he fired swiftly, shot after shot, and three men 
fell. His revolvers were empty. There were 
three men left. The case seemed all against 


The Plunderer 


419 


him now, but just here a shot, and then another, 
came from the window, and a fourth man fell. 
Pierre sprang upon one, and the other turned 
and ran. There was a short, sharp struggle : then 
Pierre rose up — alone. 

The girl stood in the doorway. “ Come, my 
dear,” he said, “you must go with me now.” 

“ Yes, Pierre,” she cried, a mad light in her 
face. “ I have killed men too — for you.” 

Together they ran down the hillside, and 
made for the stables of the Fort. People were 
hurrying through the long street of the town, 
and torches were burning, but they came by a 
roundabout to the stables safely. Pierre was 
about to enter, when a man came out. It was 
Liddall. He kept his horses there, and he had 
saddled one, thinking that Pierre might need it. 

There were quick words of explanation, and 
then “Must the girl go too?” he asked. “It 
will increase the danger — besides — ” 

“ I am going wherever he goes,” she inter- 
rupted hoarsely ; “ I have killed men ; he and I 
are the same now.” 

Without a word Liddall turned back, threw a 
saddle on another horse, and led it out quickly. 
“ Which way ? ” he asked ; “ and where shall I 
find the horses ? ” 

“ West to the mountains. The horses y«u 


420 An Adventurer of the North 

will find at T^te Blanche Hill, if we get there. 
If not, there is money under the white pine at my 
cottage. Good bye ! ” 

They galloped away. But there were mounted 
men in the main street, and one, well ahead of 
the others, was making towards the bridge over 
which they must pass. He reached it before 
they did, and set his horse crosswise in its nar- 
row entrance. Pierre urged his mare in front of 
the girl’s and drove straight at the head and 
shoulders of the obstructing horse. His was the 
heavier animal, and it bore the other down. The 
rider fired as he fell, but missed, and, in an 
instant, Pierre and the girl were over. The 
fallen man fired the second time, but again missed. 
They had a fair start, but the open prairie was 
ahead of them, and there was no chance to hide. 
Riding must do all, for their pursuers were in 
full cry. For an hour they rode hard. They 
could see their hunters not very far in the rear. 
Suddenly Pierre started and sniffed the air. 

“ The prairie’s on fire ! ” he said exultingly, 
defiantly. 

Almost as he spoke, clouds ran down the 
horizon, and then the sky lighted up. The fire 
travelled with incredible swiftness ; they were 
hastening to meet it. It came on wave-like, 
hurrying down at the right and the left as if to 


The Plunderer 


421 


close in on them. The girl spoke no word ; 
she had no fear : what Pierre did she would do. 
He turned round to see his pursuers : they had 
wheeled and were galloping back the way they 
came. His horse and hers were travelling neck 
and neck. He looked at her with an intense, 
eager gaze. 

“Will you ride on?” he asked eagerly. 
“We are between two fires.” He smiled, re- 
membering his words to Liddall. 

“ Ride on! ” she urged in a strong, clear voice, 
a kind of wild triumph in it. “ You shall not 
go alone.” 

There ran into his eyes now the same infi- 
nite look that had been in hers — that had con- 
quered him. The flame rolling towards them 
was not brighter or hotter. 

“ For heaven or hell, my girl !” he cried, and 
they drove their horses on — on. 

Far behind upon a divide the flying hunters 
from Guidon Hill paused for a moment. They 
saw with hushed wonder and awe a man and 
woman, dark and weird against the red light, 
ride madly into the flicking surf of fire. 


THE END. 


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